


Someone Borrowed

by always_a_queen



Category: Nikita (TV 2010)
Genre: F/M, Fake Marriage, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:17:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_a_queen/pseuds/always_a_queen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series AU. Michael and Nikita go on a long-term undercover assignment. Angst ensues. / "There's a wedding band on her fourth finger and a matching one on Michael's hand, and no amount of prior experience or training could ever prepare her for this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you and i walk a fragile line

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Violence, mentions of torture, mild language & non-graphic sexual content, talk of miscarriages and abortion.
> 
> Spoilers: Anything from the first season is fair game.
> 
> Beta: Sara/beyondthepen, who deserves lots and lots of pretzel M&M's and my eternal gratitude for beta-ing this.

**Disclaimer:**  I own neither the show nor the characters, and some of the dialogue is shamelessly swiped from episodes. The chapter headings are all taken from Taylor Swift's Haunted

* * *

_I. you and I walk a fragile line_

* * *

It's not her first mission.

It's not even her second or third, but the butterflies fluttering in her stomach beg to differ.

There's a wedding band on her fourth finger and a matching one on Michael's hand, and no amount of prior experience or training could ever prepare her for this.

Amanda's mouth is moving, explaining nuances and details of the mission, plans and contingencies that Nikita should be committing to memory, but she can't seem to get her brain to focus on anything other than the diamond on her finger. She certainly can't risk a glance at Michael or her stomach will sink like lead at the tight expression she knows  _must_ be on his face.

Although they've only been working together as equals for a few short months, they're already more in sync than half of Percy's other agents at Division. This compatibility – which has obviously not escaped Percy's notice – seems to have resulted in the high profile missions she's been getting. These types of assignments are not normally given to someone with her limited experience, and in every one she's been working closely with Michael.

The mission itself is  _supposed_  to be simple. (If there's one thing Nikita's learned during her short time at Division, it's that a simple mission is like a cold fire or dry water – oxymoronic.) They're taking down one John Bower: a loving husband by day, a shady bad guy with his hands in a number of various illegal cookie jars by night.

("Good thing it's not  _Jack_  Bauer," Birkhoff says with a smirk when he sees the name at the top of the file. Michael smacks him upside the head.)

This Mr. Bower is apparently involved in everything from weapons dealing to human trafficking to drug smuggling. Basically, Nikita realizes, if it involves sneaking anything into or out of the States, he probably has one of his underlings working on it.

Nikita's job is to befriend Bower's wife; Michael's task is to infiltrate his organization. The guy Bower had working on his weapons smuggling suddenly dropped off of the face of the earth – no doubt thanks to Division – and Michael's posing as a potential replacement. Bower needs him for his alias' contacts; Michael supposedly needs Bower for his ability to move merchandise between countries with minimal difficulty.

It's exactly the kind of job Michael loves. It's not an assassination; it's not Percy using Division to achieve his own nefarious ends. They're not walking the knife-edge between evil and morally gray. No, this assignment has an actual bad guy, a villain.

To her left, Michael is eerily silent, twirling the gold band on his ring finger in a manner that makes Nikita wonder if he is anxious or just uncomfortable. And then she wonders if she's the reason he's nervous.

Michael thinks Nikita isn't ready; she can tell. She knows he's argued with Percy about her participation in this op. She knows that the words 'emotionally attached' and 'problematic' were batted around and that the fight never reached a conclusion. At the moment, the two men are so peeved with each other that they're not speaking.

The problem is more than just Michael being his typical overprotective self and Percy being his usual manipulative self. The fact that lately they've been constantly at odds essentially guaranties that they're going to argue over everything related to this mission. Nikita's involvement has just ramped up the tension to triple its normal intensity, at least.

Part of it has to do with the fact that Nikita is a last minute addition. Michael's first pick was an agent Nikita had never met, but who had apparently been partnered with Michael infrequently over the last couple of years. A stray bullet lodged in the woman's midsection and a three hour surgery made Nikita Percy's second choice.

Amanda, for her part, seems as serene and impartial as ever, watching both boys with a careful eye as she attempts to persuade them that running through the details one more time would be prudent.

Angrily, Michael snaps that he knows what he's doing and storms out of the room with a meaningful glare at Percy. Percy rolls his eyes and follows him.

Without batting an eye, Amanda slowly sits down across from Nikita. Her voice is smooth, sticky like honey. "So Nikita." She folds her fingers together. "It looks like it's just you and me left, so let's talk, shall we? How do  _you_  feel about this mission?"

Nikita isn't sure how she feels about Amanda as a person, but she does know that she definitely doesn't like the weekly sessions she's forced to attend. Michael tells her to grin and bear it, but considering that he himself isn't required to go to counseling at all, his platitudes don't help her much.

"Like I can handle it," Nikita replies.

"You previous assignments have all been brief," Amanda continues like Nikita has just admitted nervousness instead of confidence. "Relatively short, quick kills, nothing terribly long and detailed, and certainly nothing with this much emotional weight. You could be under for weeks or months, with no respite. But you must remember, Nikita, that this isn't real. It's not your life. Michael is not your husband, and your relationship is all a show. Do you think you can handle that?"

She doesn't know the answer to that question simply because  _it's Michael_  and somehow everything's messier with him. What Nikita does know is that no matter what answer she gives, Amanda is going to keep her already-formed opinions to herself.

"I can handle it."

Amanda smiles.

"Good. We won't have any problems then."

* * *

The problem isn't that he doesn't want Nikita on the mission.

(He wants her. He always wants her and maybe that's just a difficulty Michael is forever cursed to live with.)

It isn't even because it's a dangerous mission. It's not; not for her, anyway. Even if it was, Nikita is one of the most capable agents he knows, and even if she wasn't that, he would do everything in his power to protect her.

So Michael tells himself that there is not a single good, solid reason for him to be against Nikita's participation, save for the fact that his brain seems to be incapable of even contemplating the prospect of pretending to be married to  _Nikita_  for an inevitably long stretch of time.

These feelings – the emotions that swell in his chest whenever he looks at her, the fireworks on his skin when he touches her – they're more dangerous to the both of them than any weapon ever forged.

Maybe the truth is that he's afraid that when it's just the two of them outside Division, away from prying eyes and listening ears, one or both of them will give into temptation and do something they'll later deeply regret.

Or maybe he's scared of what might happen when the assignment finally ends.

* * *

The house is beautiful.

Nikita feels like she could wander around for days just looking at all the little  _details_. The obvious things are there – matching furniture, wedding pictures above the mantle, a small sculpture on a table and paintings hanging on the walls – but it's the little things that shock her.

There's a half-squeezed out tube of toothpaste in the upstairs master bathroom, magnets from eight different states on the fridge, a ring on the coffee table, a loose knob in the kitchen and the third step from the top squeaks to high heaven whenever the slightest amount of pressure is applied to the floorboards. Packages in the cupboards are open, some are half empty, and the ones towards the back are expired. Books on the shelf are arranged in a crazy order; some are new, and some are old. Nikita flips through a few and finds folded down corners, ripped pages, and random bookmarks. One of the first she explores – a hard cover copy of  _Pride and Prejudice_  – actually has an inscription in Michael's handwriting that begins with the words:  _To My Darling Wife, on our Anniversary._

Upstairs, Nikita looks through a jewelry box and finds an earring without a partner. (She'll find its mate under the couch days later.) In her top drawer, beneath her sleepwear she finds over twenty Hallmark cards tied with a ribbon. Every one is from  _Michael_  to  _Nikita._ Some are old and bent, others are newer. Every one is dated, and the script is unmistakably Michael's.

There's lingerie tucked inside another drawer. (Nikita closes that drawer without any further exploration.)

It's not perfect, except that it actually  _is_  and that's what shocks Nikita the most.

If anyone were to snoop around, the house would look like a married couple lived there. It would look like a home.

She wants to look through Michael's drawers, to see what things this alternate Nikita has given him, if any even exist, but she never quite works up the courage.

Nikita thinks she's beginning to understand what Amanda meant when she described this assignment as  _emotionally weighted._  It's not just sweet little Nikita working as a nanny for a week so she can get the access to kill the head of the family.

No, this is Nikita becoming another person, one who went to Niagara Falls and the Grand Canyon, one who loves Jane Austen, one who is happily married to a man madly in love with her. This Nikita was never a foster child, never abused, never in prison, never brought to Division. This Nikita has never learned how to kill a man with her bare hands, never learned how to clean a gun, and never learned how to arm or disarm a bomb. This Nikita is innocent.

But the woman playing her is not.

It's enough to make her head spin. When Michael finally comes upstairs to the master bedroom to see if she's alright because he's called her name several times and she hasn't answered, he finds her sitting on the floor, back against the foot of the bed, her head aching from the sheer complexity of it all.

"It's like living in a dream," she tells him.  _One that I'm not sure I want to wake up from_ remains unspoken.

"It is," he agrees softly. "But you have to remember: it's not real. None of it."

She decides that will be her mantra for the duration of this assignment from hell.

_It's not real._

* * *

Aside from that, the first day is relatively easy.

They move in, they eat dinner, they go to sleep – nothing too traumatic.

There's a moment of awkwardness when Nikita realizes that it's simply expected for them to sleep in the same bed. No alternate options exist.

Nikita doesn't know how  _anyone_ ,much less the Bowers, would even  _know_  if they slept in separate beds, but she figures that Division doesn't want anything – no matter how trifling – to interfere with the integrity of their cover. Considering that, they're  _supposed_  to be happily married…well, separate bedrooms or even separate beds would seriously damage that pretense if the Bowers found out.

Michael doesn't even have to spell it out for Nikita; she understands within a few seconds of seeing him lying on the right side of the bed reading a Stephan King novel.

Besides, Nikita convinces herself as she tugs at her oversized tee-shirt, it's a  _huge_  bed. They could both toss and turn all night and never so much as brush up against the other.

She turns down the bedspread and slips beneath the covers. There's a well worn book on Nikita's side of the bed, and she picks it up.  _Wuthering Heights._

Carefully, she sneaks a glance at Michael. Either he's actually interested in his novel or he's very good at pretending to be engrossed. Based on how often Nikita's seen him pretending to pour over Amanda's detailed briefs and unnecessary memos her money is on the latter.

She can't concentrate enough to read any more than a sentence or two, so it only takes her a few minutes to get bored and return the book to its former home on the nightstand.

As she settles against her pillow – with her back to Michael; he can read her too well and one look at her expression will entice him to start a conversation about their present circumstances – she can't help but speculate about the other Michael and Nikita. Would they really spend their nights reading, or would she have rolled across the bed and kissed him by now? Would the other Nikita really wear a huge shirt, or would she have slid on one of those slinky negligees?

She doesn't know for sure, but in both instances, the latter choice seems more likely.

"Goodnight, Nikita," she hears Michael whisper, seconds before the lights go out.

* * *

She meets Mrs. Bower the next day.

It's not so much luck as it is Division's amazing ability to manipulate people into being in the right place at the right time.

In other words: afternoon tea.

It's unclear whether or not Carla Bower is aware of her husband's extra-curricular activities, so it falls to Nikita to find out what she knows. Bumping into her in the ladies room at the prestigious restaurant Carla frequents at least twice a week for brunch is ridiculously easy.

(Nikita thinks she should be compensated for even agreeing to wear pastel and an elegant white hat for this portion of the mission. It's enough to make her actually _prefer_  the slinky dress and the killer heels Amanda makes her wear on the nightclub assignments.)

Still, she's a professional or at least she's supposed to be, so she complements Carla on her pearls, and the two strike up a conversation. It doesn't lead much of anywhere – Nikita didn't exactly care to know how much money was spent on the jewelry – but it's a start, so she takes it with a grain of salt, finishes up her tea and salad and reports back to the house.

Michael's out on his "job interview," which is a fairly loose description for participating in a likely illegal activity to prove his capability to his potential employer. This means that he's either breaking a few kneecaps or killing a few traitors, it all depends on just how sadistic his new boss is. Nikita hopes for the former, but a weight in her gut says that it'll be the latter.

In the meantime, she tidies up and gets Amanda up to speed via one of the most boring conference calls ever.

When Michael does come home – she shouldn't be thinking of it as home; she knows this, but it can't be helped – he's got a few cuts and bruises, but it seems that his interview went well.

He doesn't tell Nikita what he had to do, and she's wise enough to simply not ask.

* * *

Three days later, they're invited over to the Bower's house for a dinner party.

At least, that's what Michael tells Nikita. It's really more that John Bower is a paranoid psychopath who wants to make sure that his latest employee's significant other is on the up and up.

Nikita brings salad.

Michael watches her in the kitchen as she slices vegetables, washes lettuce and throws everything together into a bowl. When she finishes, she wipes her hands on her thighs, slaps some plastic wrap around the lid of the container and does this absolutely adorable little victory dance that makes her look like the innocent girl she must have been at some point in her lifetime.

She catches him watching her and their eyes meet for a second.

If she were really his wife, he would kiss her right now. If she were his wife, he would take her in his arms and spin around the kitchen with her, and they would both get so swept up in each other that they would totally forget all about the party and be hours late – if they showed up at all.

But she's not, and he can't. So he doesn't.

Instead he turns away and goes upstairs to change.

When he sees her again, she's traded her tee-shirt and jeans for a casual, practical dress. Pearls earrings dot her earlobes and a matching bracelet encircles her wrist. She looks beautiful more than she does sexy, and since Michael thinks that Nikita is sexy so often – well, at  _least_  thrice a day - the former doesn't detract from the latter  _at all_.

Her necklace is laid out against the hardwood of the dresser and Michael picks it up to place it around her neck.

"You look lovely," he tells her placidly, though he has to admit it's a huge understatement.

"Thank you." She's so demure, even as her eyes rise to meet his and he sees the thick emotion held in her gaze.

Michael thinks they've gotten too damn good at conversing without saying a word.

His thumbs brush against her collarbone and he forces his expression to remain neutral so she can't see how her closeness is making him want to throw logic, protocol and propriety out the window and kiss her.

But he feels her shiver, hears her sharp intake of breath, sees her lips part slightly and her eyelashes flutter, and he knows that he's not the only one affected. Physically, it's a relatively small distance between them, yet emotionally they might as well be standing on different continents.

Division is the chasm that looms between them, and Michael thinks it exists for reasons more than the simple fact that he doesn't know how to cross it.

Division agents do not become emotionally involved with anyone Percy doesn't expressly tell them to, and even then, it's an understood facet of their job. There are the occasionally romantic trysts every now and again, but once the scuttlebutt upgrades from rumor to confirmed fact, the two parties in question are immediately split up. Occasionally, the less valuable of the two agents is canceled.

There is one thing in the world Michael doesn't know how to deal with losing – one thing he can't even _envision_  life without – it's Nikita.

It's the cold, heavy fear for Nikita – never himself; Michael's a big boy who can deal with the consequences of his choices – that keeps Michael awake at night. If Percy were to ever find out that they'd stepped across that invisible line…the consequences would be unfathomable.

So he tells himself that the emotional conflict – that constant push and pull between them spurred on by their work at Division – is a good thing that keeps them alive.

Most of the time he actually thinks he believes it.

* * *

At dinner, Nikita and Carla Bower take to each other instantly. They've met briefly before – Division has seen to it – and soon the two women are talking and laughing while Michael and John smile at each other and trade niceties.

Bower is a completely different man around his wife: open, talkative, and even affectionate. His warmth influences the way Michael acts around Nikita. They've supposedly been married five years, so he reminds himself that constantly holding her hand, pressing his own against her waist or leaning over to place a kiss on her cheek is perfectly acceptable. They're playing lovebirds, after all.

Nikita complies with the requirements of their cover as well, fixing his tie, smiling sweetly up at him, and letting the undertones in their normally veiled flirtation become overtones. They've always played a tightly wound verbal game, volleying insincere insults and implied complements back and forth with unmatched skill.

It all makes Michael wonder: how much of this is an act and how much is it just  _them_  pure and simple, once all the complications and complexities of life inside Division have been stripped away and only Michael and Nikita remain?

Nikita laughs at something John says, and Michael joins along with a chuckle, though he can't for the life of him remember what words were spoken.

"So," Carla leans forward on the table, hands folded under her chin. "How did you two meet?"

Nikita looks at Michael, and her eyes tell him that she'd prefer he take this one, so he does. He spins a story of a beautiful young woman, the daughter of a rich CEO who was traveling through Europe the year before she enrolled in a university, and that of an average American boy visiting relatives in Paris. Their paths cross, naturally, and they fall madly in love within the span of a week. He has to leave Europe, but she stays. Their relationship survives on letters and scattered phone calls for the better part of the next two years as their paths continued to cross occasionally, but never intersect directly.

"And finally," Michael says as he draws the story to a conclusion, "we ended up on the same continent, and started actually dating. And for some reason…she agreed to marry me."

They're sitting next to one another at the Bower's dining room table, and Michael has been keeping his eyes off of her so he can finish the fabricated story of how they met, but once he reaches those last five words, he glances over at her. She's staring at him intently, as if held captive by his every word. There's so much emotion in Nikita's expression that he doesn't think she can speak, so he rescues her by leaning over and pressing a gentle, loving kiss to her lips.

Under the table, his hand finds hers and he gives it a reassuring squeeze. The first gesture is for the fake Nikita, the second is for the real one.

When he draws away from her – reluctantly, and he mentally curses his own faultless self-control, because what he'd really like to do is just keep kissing her – he realizes that in the past five minutes, they've managed to sell themselves to the Bowers. Carla looks like she could melt into a puddle of goo, and even John seems moved by Michael's completely fictional anecdote.

Their primary mission for the night is simple: determine if John is paranoid enough to have anti-bugging devices in his home, and if not, their orders are to plant a few bugs here and there.

Since his house is secured to the hilt against any form of espionage, Michael casually asks Nikita if she double checked to make sure her curling iron was switched off so she knows that the secondary mission was scrapped. She tells him that yes, she checked, which means she got the message and she's seen the anti-bugs as well.

Carla and Nikita disappear to the kitchen to fetch dessert, leaving the men alone.

"She's lovely," John says of Nikita, and Michael finds himself inclined to agree.

There are so many aspects of Nikita's personality that transcend even the characters she plays. Her loveliness is one of those things; her tenacity and strength are another.

No matter  _who_  Nikita is at any given moment, Michael finds he can always see  _her_ underneath the superficiality that continually surrounds her while she's on assignment.

"Yes," he agrees, taking a slow sip of his coffee, "she is."

"She doesn't know about our little 'business arrangement'?" Bower says.

"Would you tell her?" Michael asks in a tone that's supposed to say he clearly hasn't.

John Bower grins. "You're a smart man, Michael. I like that about you."

The women return. Nikita brings a scrumptious-looking chocolate cream pie, and Carla carries a tray of small plates and serving utensils.

With a small, sweet smile Nikita hands Michael a large slice of pie. His fingers brush across her wrist as he takes the dish from her. He wants the touch to linger longer, like it would if they were in Division, but they're not, and this obvious longing between them will arouse the Bower's suspicion if it is allowed to continue.

So Michael bites his tongue as he thanks her, and tries to keep his eyes off of her as she gets her own pie and slips into the seat next to his. Their shoulders brush as she sits down, and the familiarity evident in the contact is good for their cover. He slips his free arm around her and draws her close to his side, rubbing his hand gently up and down her forearm.

Carla sighs delightedly as she sinks into her own chair. "Aren't they just the perfect little couple, Hon?"

John nods. Michael is inclined to agree with his boss.

They  _are_  perfect.

* * *

That night, Nikita wakes to find him sleeping soundly beside her. He's shirtless, lying on his stomach, one arm stretched above his head. Her fingers long to touch him because he's perfect and he looks so innocent when he's sleeping, less like a trained killer and more like a person – a husband, a partner, a friend.

And her heart aches because over the past few days she's begun to realize that he's everything she wants and needs and can never fully have.

There's something undeniable simmering between them. She knows that he knows it. She also knows that – Michael being Michael – this attraction connecting them is something he'll never dare speak of out loud. It's not cowardice on his part, Nikita understands this better than anyone; it's simply Michael's protective streak manifesting in a way she often wished it didn't.

With a sigh, Nikita slips out of bed and pads downstairs, careful to avoid the squeaky step. In the kitchen, she pours herself a bowl of chocolate cereal and sits at the center island, thinking.

Her cereal gets soggy as she sits, wondering about the other Michael and Nikita. She imagines them happily married, wonderfully and hopelessly in love, their daily worries regulated to fixing squeaky steps and figuring out what to have for dinner.

They wouldn't worry about shooting someone in the kneecap or whether or not Michael's boss has anti-bugging devices sprinkled throughout his house.

The noisy floorboard creeks, letting Nikita know that she's not the only one awake. A few seconds later, she looks up to see Michael entering the kitchen. He's pulled on a white undershirt, thank goodness, and he still looks half asleep.

"What are you doing awake?" he asks, and Nikita can't tell if he's concerned or curious.

"Couldn't sleep," she answers, taking a bite of her cereal.

Michael sighs heavily. "Nikita." There's a warning in his tone that doesn't escape Nikita's notice. "About tonight…"

Ah, the kiss at the dinner table. "We did the job. We were supposed to portray a young married couple in love. I think they bought it."

"Well," he grins lazily, a half-smile that always makes her heart rate double, "We're probably going to have to go through a few more tests before they trust us completely, but I'd say we're well on our way."

"Do you think Bower trusts you?"

"Not yet," Michael replies. "He'd been a fool to trust me implicitly at this point, but give it a little time."

"Carla likes you too."

"Well, I am very charming."

Yes. Yes he is. When he wants to be, that is. Nikita looks down at her Coco Puffs. "Percy will be pleased."

Michael shrugs her words off as he pours himself a glass of water. "You think Carla's involved?" he asks her. She can't tell if he really wants to know her opinion in order to gauge it against his own or if he is simply asking the question out of curiosity.

"I don't know," she answers, because she doesn't have anywhere near enough facts  _to_ know anything for sure and if she guesses or goes on instinct, she's liable to get a lecture about the precarious balance between solid proof and gun feelings.

As if he can read her mind, Michael leans forward on the counter and says, "I'm not gonna lecture you, Nikita. I just want to know what you think."

She shrugs, but answers hesitantly, "I don't want to think that she's involved, but I'm not going to delude myself into believing she's innocent just because I want to hope that's the case."

"Look, Nikita." He looks down at his hands, fingers tapping restlessly against each other. "I know a lot of this is difficult, but I want you to know that you're doing great, okay?" His lips are twisted impishly into that self-confident smirk

Nikita takes another bite of her cereal. Michael takes a sip of his water.

"I don't know if I can keep doing this, Michael."

"Nikita…" he starts, and his tone is a warning.

"No," she snaps, standing up, "don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

He looks away. "It's too dangerous. I won't let you be put through that. We'll get through this mission as best we can and that'll be the end of it."

She shoves the last spoonful of Coco Puffs into her mouth and marches over to the sink to rinse her dishes. "I'm  _done_  ignoring this, Michael."

There's a moment where their eyes meet and the expression exchanged is filled with such strong longing that Nikita knows without question that he wishes desperately that it didn't have to be this way. And she knows that his unwillingness to act on their increasingly obvious feelings is based on some misguided sense of over-protectiveness.

Though it affects him as much as it does her, Michael will do everything he can to keep her safe, even if it means denying the attraction between them until the day they die.

Despite how much her head understands his motivations, her heart still feels wounded.

In short: Nikita's still angry with him. So she does the only mature thing she can.

She gives him the silent treatment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for HetBigBang on Livejournal. Oddly enough, the original plot-bunny said 'hilarity ensues'. Then I started writing this thing and discovered that Michael and Nikita don't exactly lend themselves to fluff, at least not in my head.


	2. I have known it all this time

_II. I have known it all this time_

* * *

Nikita goes to lunch with Carla the next day, and while John doesn't come up in their conversation at all, Michael is mentioned frequently. It seems that Carla Bower feels the need to ensure that Nikita is fully conscious of just how wonderful a man she is married to. This compulsion of hers is useless firstly because Nikita is very well aware how wonderful Michael is and secondly because she isn't actually married to him, so the point is moot.

Still, sitting around listening to Carla prattle on about how attentive and charming she finds Nikita's pseudo-husband is probably more pleasant than how the man in question is likely spending his day, so she decides to simply grin and bear it.

Finally, Carla shifts topics. "Now, I know it is short notice, but John and I always attend this charity gala that my friend Suzanne puts on every year. We usually buy tickets for our friends the Grangers, but they're vacationing in Mexico right now–" Nikita wasn't sure if that was a metaphor for fleeing from the authorities or if they actually  _were_  vacationing in Mexico, "–and they can't come. You and Michael are such a cute couple; we would love to give you their tickets so you can attend in their stead."

Nikita forces a smile. "I'm sure we would love to attend. When is it?"

"Well, that's what I mean about the short notice, dear. It's tomorrow evening. But don't worry! You and I can find you something to wear after lunch. I've been dying to try out this new store…"

Again, Carla begins chattering on about nonsense, and again, Nikita mostly tunes her out.

After lunch they go shopping. Even though Nikita could make one call to Amanda and have more dresses at her disposal, all of them the right size and flattering to her body size and color palette, her orders are to stay as close to Carla as possible, so she goes along with it. Besides, at one point Carla asks Nikita to hold her purse; it makes cloning the woman's phone ridiculously easy.

She stops Carla when she suggests looking at shoes next, explaining that she has a pair that will work at home and doesn't an espresso sound nice right about now?

So they find a little café where they sit and chat some more until Carla receives a text message on her cell phone and excuses herself.

Since Nikita has the phone cloned, she knows that the message reads:  _Situation. Come now. – J_

It doesn't take a genius to guess that the _J_  is John.

Her stomach sinks like a lead weight as realization dawns.

Maybe Carla _is_  involved.

* * *

Michael spends his day arranging matters for John, which is really a kinder way to say he threatens, bribes and shoots people until he gets what he wants. Those contacts who merely know him as Michael know him to be a brutish, short-tempered man and he plays his part well despite how it sickens him.

Percy wants him close to John, supposedly to gain enough information to destroy the man's criminal empire. Michael thinks he knows better. The truth is: Percy wants him near John to gain information, yes, but also for the purpose of taking the man out of the picture and taking over his 'business.' It's less about helping people and more about eliminating the competition.

Nikita is still living under the idealistic belief that they're saving the world one bad guy at a time, and Michael is content to let her continue with that conviction. Being around John and Carla turns his stomach, and at least if Nikita thinks she's taking out the bad guys it'll make this hellish assignment slightly more bearable for her.

If there is one successful thing Michael manages to accomplish besides breaking femurs, it's the revelation that everything Percy wants – the names, the contacts…everything needed for Michael to replace John in a seamless transition – is all inside a leather journal locked away in a safe located in John's office. Old fashioned it may be, but as Birkhoff puts it: "It's the one place I  _can't_  hack." (He says plenty of other things as well, but Michael's gotten used to tuning the nerd out after about ten words.)

Michael knows what his orders will be before he even tells Percy of the journal: retrieve it, as soon as possible.

With Michael carefully under watch every moment he's in the Bower's house, that task falls to one person.

Nikita.

* * *

They attend the charity ball.

Michael wears a tux; Nikita wears the gown Carla picked out.

They stroll into the banquet hall arm-in-arm, and they dance during what Michael informs her is 'their' song.

(Nikita wonders if this little detail was mentioned in one of the mission briefs and she just missed it, but later when she goes back to the house, she'll look through the stack of CD's by the television and sure enough, one containing the song will be there, and 'their song' will be circled on the back, a heart drawn around the number.)

It's the strangest thing in the world because she's normally so relaxed around Michael, but something about the fact that he's constantly touching her now is disconcerting. It's not that his hands on her shoulders or his fingers pressing against her spine make her uncomfortable. It's not that his closeness is unbearable, it's just the opposite.

Touching him is like finding an anchor in the middle of a stormy sea. Nikita doesn't know how to deal with that because she knows that  _this isn't real._  The more used she gets to the sensation of his skin brushing against hers the harder it's going to be when they return to Division. Once they're back there the only touches they'll be trading will be punches and blows.

They're still not speaking unless it's absolutely necessary, and it's entirely Nikita's fault.

She doesn't hesitate when he pulls her closer than necessary, doesn't flinch when his hands settle on the small of her back, or allow herself to be intimidated by the fact that they're dancing cheek to cheek.

"Nikita," his voice is low, husky. "You know I never… _wanted_  this."

"You never wanted what?"

The next steps of the dance force their bodies to separate, but he catches her gaze and doesn't let go. His eyes tell her that what she already knows: he never wanted to hurt her.

_Tough,_  she thinks, _you did._

They're  _so_  close it's practically unbearable. She closes her eyes and leans in a little closer, savoring these last few moments of nearness before their real reason for being here rears its ugly head.

He kisses her when the song ends, a gentle, chaste gesture that sets her head spinning and her heart pounding. (And it almost,  _almost_  makes her want to forgive him.)

_It's not real,_  her brain screams while her heart tears in agony.

* * *

John and Carla find them after only a few minutes. Carla has a flute of champagne in her hand. Her hair is pulled up in a tight, sophisticated twist, and Nikita has no doubt that the diamonds that glitter on her ears and around her neck are genuine and expensive.

"You look beautiful, Nikita," she says, taking a sip of her champagne, "I told you that dress would look divine. Doesn't she look simply _divine_ , Michael?"

"She does," he agrees in that smoky voice; a matching look in his eyes when he glances at her sends Nikita's heart into overdrive. His arm is heavy and warm around her waist and she tries to forget about the thrill of pleasure his fingers evoke as they shift against her hip.

Michael is a better actor that Nikita's ever given him credit for.

* * *

Michael watches her carefully as he helps slide the zipper down her 'divine' dress later that night. Her face is turned away from him, her expression is unreadable, and her hands are carefully twisting that long dark hair away from her neck so that none of the strands will be caught in the clasp of her necklace or her zipper.

She steps away as soon as he finishes, but the gown manages to slip partially off on her trek to the bathroom, exposing smooth, tan shoulder blades and a significant portion of her back.

It's nothing Michael hasn't seen before. Amanda's forced Nikita to wear some pretty revealing stuff, everything from the skimpiest string bikinis to equally flimsy selections of lacy lingerie. Michael's watched her do all kinds of things in those outfits, from seduction to assassination and everything in between.

The bathroom door shuts behind her and he tries desperately not to think about it as he yanks off his tie and jacket and starts unbuttoning his dress shirt.

He understands her anger with him. She wants something he can  _never_  give her, yet this assignment keeps cruelly tormenting her with glimpses of the possibility. Occasionally Michael wonders if Percy is merely toying with them for his own sick amusement; the very thought makes him furious.

Slowly the bathroom door swings open. Michael glances over to see Nikita standing at the sink running a brush through her hair. She's wearing one of the thin negligees, a rich purple number with a plunging neckline and a skimpy skirt. In an instant he understands what she's doing. It wasn't a coincidence that her zipper stuck or her dress slipped as she walked away. No, Nikita's doing it on purpose, whether because she's still irritated or simply to give him a  _very_  good idea of just exactly what it is he's saying no too.

He  _should_  look away, but the steady, methodical movement of her hands working through the tangles in her hair is hypnotic. She's not looking at him, completely focused on her own reflection in the mirror before her.

She's beautiful, and for just a moment Michael wants to forget about the cost, to put out of his mind the high price of being with her. He wants her; he does.

So  _badly_.

Tearing his eyes away from her, Michael leaves the room and heads downstairs.

They can't.

They just  _can't_  and it's killing him just as much as it's obviously killing her. He grabs his laptop and flops down on the couch to bury himself in work. Amanda's been harassing him for the past few days about needing a  _substantial_  mission update – apparently, Nikita's catty one-liners and sparse e-mails aren't cutting the mustard. Amanda thinks entirely too much of herself.

His update is definitely longer than Nikita's usual, and he hopes that the length will placate Amanda enough that she won't feel the need to ask all those annoying personal questions about how he's feeling working so close to Nikita.

Sometime after he sends the report off, he sets the computer on the coffee table and drifts off to a fitful sleep. He wakes up what must only be a few hours later to the sound of Nikita speaking his name. Her hands are on his shoulders and her voice is soft and soothing. "Come to bed, Michael. Please."

He blames his utter exhaustion for the fact that he actually  _lets_  her coax him upstairs when a few hours ago he was steadfast in his determination to spend the night exiled on the sofa.

Nikita must realize that she's discovered a chink in his armor – namely, Michael's sleep deprivation – because she crawls into their huge bed and immediately curls her body against his in a way that is more comforting than sensual. Just as he begins to strongly consider resisting her touch, she makes a little contented sigh as she snuggles against him, and he relents by drawing her tiny frame closer and returning her embrace.

He just hopes Nikita will forgive him for this lapse of judgment, because he's not sure he can forgive himself.

* * *

In the morning he curses the fact that he hadn't realizing that she was still wearing that silk nightgown. Her long legs are twisted around his, her arms are looped around his neck, and her hair is absolutely  _everywhere_. Untangling their limbs while simultaneously trying not to wake her up is difficult. Michael quickly discovers that a half-asleep Nikita is a clingy Nikita. She murmurs groggily in protest and tightens her hold on him when he tries to slip out of her arms.

Gritting his teeth, he hesitates for just a second, fighting the temptation to close his eyes again and waste the morning right here. It would be so easy.

They can't.

He climbs out of bed; she moans, rolling over.

"Michael." Nikita's voice is almost pleading.

Pausing in the doorway, Michael turns to stare at her.

Keeping her body partially covered by the sheets, Nikita sits up, clutching the fabric to her chest. Her long hair is in total disarray. It looks downright adorable, but Michael brushes that thought aside quickly. Her eyes are heavily-lidded when they meet his, and for a moment he's startled by the vulnerability he sees there. Whether he wants to admit it or not, she  _has_ barred her soul for him several times over the past few days. However Michael classifies it, what they did last night – as wonderful as it was – it wasn't fair to either of them. He should have been the one to stop it, and he hadn't.

Hopefully Nikita doesn't think this changes anything.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and he truly is.

The look of sheer heartbreak on Nikita's face is enough to make him rethink his words, but not for long.

Michael turns away from her and walks downstairs.

* * *

Nikita lies in bed for a long time, listening to the sounds of Michael moving through the house. She hears him start the coffee pot and open the front door to get the paper. For a moment she sits up when she thinks she hears him start up the stairs, but Nikita quickly realizes her mistake and flops back down on the cushion on pillows, letting her eyes slide shut. She wishes she could drift back to sleep; at least there she can pretend that Michael's arms are still around her.

She shouldn't have thought the night before would change anything. Michael is the same as he always was, bound by rules and completely submissive to both Percy and Division. One night of sleeping in each other's arms isn't going to change anything.

"Nikita?"

She pries her eyes open to see him standing above her, a white mug filled with coffee in one hand.

It's a peace offering, so she takes it despite the fact that she would much rather go back to bed and sleep the day away.

"Don't you have to go to work?" she asks before taking a tentative sip. It's hot, but he's obviously taken care to prepare it exactly how she likes it.

The expression on Michael's face is one of absolute disregard. "If I don't occasionally tell John that I'm at home with my wife, he won't believe our cover story of a love and passion-filled marriage, will he?"

There's a smirk on his lips and something unquestionably playful in his eyes. Nikita can't help smiling back. "So I should also call Carla and cancel our brunch then?"

Michael hands her a phone and climbs into bed with her. Her stomach leaps at the slightest contact, particularly when his fingers brush against the curve of her waist, gently fiddling with the silk fabric of her negligee. (It was rather presumptuous of her to wear the garment, but Nikita just couldn't help it.)

She almost can't concentrate enough to dial Carla's cell, but eventually she punches in the right combination. Carla picks up on the third ring, and Michael starts talking in the background. Nikita plays along, aware of what he's doing. The call only lasts a few minutes, but Nikita's confidant that Carla gets the picture. Nikita is canceling because she's in bed with her husband and doesn't want to leave.

"Michael," Nikita begins once she's hung up. "Won't Percy…be upset?"

"No," Michael answers simply. "For starters, this whole thing was Amanda's idea."

Her eyebrows furrow, and her jaw slackens in disbelief. What is  _up_  with that woman? "It was?"

"Yep," Michael shrugs. "She didn't exactly specify today, and she didn't exactly order me to do it. We both agreed that it would be a nice touch, and it worked out perfectly."

She isn't entirely sure that she believes him, but the coffee is perfect and the bed is comfy and warm. Sliding under the covers a little more, Nikita sets her mug on a coaster and turns to look at Michael. She can practically  _hear_  him thinking.

"Out with it," Nikita says frankly. "Say what you want to say."

He opens his mouth to speak, but then he closes it again. For a second he merely looks at her. His hands are still on her waist, thumbs rubbing circles into the fabric.

"Why don't…" He hesitates. There's something in his eyes, an ulterior motive that he hasn't shared with her. "Let's take the day off. Let's just be Michael and Nikita; just for one day."

"All right." Nikita smiles. She doesn't know what brought this up, doesn't know why he's even suggesting it, but she's not about to complain. She trusts Michael's judgment - implicitly.

"One day."

* * *

They don't get out of bed until lunch.

Michael turns on the flat screen television and they watch the news until Nikita gets the hint that he  _wants_  her to wrestle him for the remote, so she does. They almost fall out of the bed grappling together, but eventually Nikita emerges the victor, and she channel surfs to her heart's content until she finds a station playing reruns of  _I Love Lucy_. They don't actually  _watch_ the show. They drink their coffee and play footsie under the sheets. (His feet are  _unbelievably_  cold.)

This is them, Nikita realizes after only a few minutes of goofing off like immature teenagers. This is Michael and Nikita the way that they were probably always supposed to be, giggling and carefree.

It strikes Nikita that she's never really heard Michael laugh before, never seen him  _happy_ before. He must have been happy at one time, she thinks, before he was the Michael she knows now. She doesn't know much about his past; he hasn't volunteered the information and Nikita knows better than to ask him about it.

She'll take whatever trust he's willing to give her, no matter the measurement.

* * *

They have pancakes for brunch. Nikita sits on the counter and eats a handful of the chocolate chips while Michael expertly stirs the batter and flips pancakes on the skillet.

Division itself doesn't make it into their conversation, but Michael responds to her begging by telling her a few stories about some of his first few missions.

It helps that a lot of his anecdotes involve Birkhoff, and listening to Michael recount a few of the nerd's antics with that dry, sarcastic wit Nikita loves so much, makes her almost fall off the counter because she's laughing so hard.

"Of course," he grins, "had you been with me, you probably would have used a hair band to beat the guy into submission."

Her jaw drops. Michael's  _joking around_  with her; Nikita's never thought she would live to see this day.

He's talking about the time she used a ponytail holder as an impromptu slingshot to distract a target. The band struck the dignitary on the neck and sidetracked him just enough for Michael to take out the target: the man's seventeen-year-old daughter. ("You were  _supposed_  to charm him with your feminine wiles!" Amanda complained later, much to Nikita's and later Michael's amusement.)

Nikita flings a fistful of chocolate chips at him. Michael ducks.

They're too busy fighting – playfully of course, they've never so much as raised a hand against the other with malicious intent, every action designed to either subdue or disarm – to notice that breakfast is burning until the smoke detectors go off.

So they end up throwing out the first batch of pancakes on account of the fact that they look more like charcoal than anything actually edible, but the second batch turns out perfectly. Nikita thinks they're the best thing she's ever tasted.

A tournament of chess games dominates their afternoon. Nikita is three moves away from having Michael in checkmate – and feeling rather glib about it too – when she returns from her trip to the kitchen to retrieve her bag of peanut m&m's she finds that he's completely undone all her plans in one simple move. Popping a red candy in her mouth, Nikita frowns at the chessboard, and then raises her eyes towards Michael.

"I'm good at getting out of no-win situations," Michael tells her in that voice that says she should have seen this coming. There's a confident smirk on his lips.

Two lost games later, Nikita initiates a winning streak that lasts for a good four rounds, one in which she has him cornered in under ten moves. This is completely by happenstance, of course. Michael's the strategist; Nikita is more of the fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants type. If she tried to think her way to a win every game, she'd lose  _all_  of them. Blind luck is her greatest ally, but she knows how to use it to her advantage.

* * *

Late that night they're lying in bed together. Nikita is nestled gently in Michael's arms, her slender body pressed against his side, her arms around his waist. The sheets are draped haphazardly around them; the house is dark except for the tiny glow from the lamp on Michael's bedside table.

"I used to do this with Liz all the time," Michael whispers when he thinks she's half asleep. "The calling in sick, the staying in bed almost all day, the chocolate chip pancakes…" he almost smiles, "…even watching  _I Love Lucy._ "

Her body shifts slightly against his, and he knows she's listening. He's not sure why exactly he's decided to start sharing secrets, but maybe it's because he's never talked about Elizabeth. There was never anyone at Division to tell. Amanda definitely wasn't an option, though she certainly tried her hardest. Michael has a feeling Percy's told the woman enough to placate her. Mystery novels much drive the bitch nuts.

There's something about Nikita – a connection, perhaps – that he hasn't felt in a really long time. Somehow she's wormed her way under his skin and he's discovering that maybe he likes her there. So he'll probably regret this in the morning, but for now, he bares his soul.

Her fingers soothe a path up and down his arm as he speaks: Nikita's way of offering silent encouragement. He tells Nikita about Elizabeth and Hayley, about the wife and daughter who had been his world, his everything, his  _family_.

"What happened to them?" she asks hesitantly.

"A man named Kasim Tariq murdered them. I left the damn briefcase in the car. Why did I leave the case in the car?" He thinks he feels her arms tighten around him a little. "He was trying to kill  _me_. They were collateral damage."

Every day Michael wishes he had died in their place. Then Elizabeth and Hayley would be alive, and he wouldn't be stuck in this world alone.

He remembers how good the morphine looked, thinks about how wonderful it would have been to close his eyes and let his soul drift away with his pain.

"I'm sorry," Nikita murmurs, breaking him from his revere. Her soft voice and gentle hands on his skin remind him that he's not alone. Michael's starting to realize that even if his vengeance – the one thing so far that has kept him alive and fighting – fades away, his life is still worth living.

He has Nikita.

They're quiet for a moment before she asks timidly, "Is that…is that when Percy found you?"

"He promised me he'd help me find Kasim."

"So you could kill him?" There's no judgment in her voice.

"Yes," he answers simply, honestly. "So I can kill him."

She seems to understand that he hasn't yet found vengeance for his family. "I'll do whatever I can to help you, Michael. I promise."

Unhurriedly, she rolls over so her body is completely sprawled over his, laying her cheek against his chest. They're both quiet for a bit, and then, "My foster-father beat me."

He's known for a long time that Nikita's childhood hadn't been a happy one, but hearing her actually confirm the abuse stirs that fierce protective streak of his. Suddenly Michael _really_  wants to kill that man. Slowly.

"How old were you?"

"Too young," Nikita answers. She's deliberately not looking at him, so Michael can't read her expression, but her voice is detached and lacking any emotion. She's just stating facts, and he wonders if she feels the need to share some part of her past as well.

"What happened?"

"He just…got angry. Threw me down the stairs one time, bashed my head into a picture frame another." She sighs. "And then I ran away. Got in trouble with the law…you found me."

_You_ found me _._ Not Division, not Percy.  _You._

The distinction is not lost on Michael. Percy's not the one who made her into who she is now; Percy isn't the one who found her, and he's not the one who saved her. That credit goes to Michael.

Nikita's loyalty isn't to Percy or Division, it's to Michael and every action she's taken – right down to vowing to help him exact revenge on his family's murderer – simply proves her dedication further. This should cause him to worry; it doesn't.

Instead, Michael leans over, switches off the light and carefully maneuvers both himself and Nikita underneath the covers.

She falls asleep easily. Michael isn't so lucky.

He lies awake for a long time, listening to Nikita breathe, calmed by the steady rise and fall of her chest and her soft, contented sighs as she subtly moves to a more comfortable position.

Tomorrow, Michael thinks, he'll tell her about the journal, about what Percy wants her to do.

He just couldn't do it today.

* * *

"So," Nikita leans forwards on the couch, elbows braced on her knees, "This was never about getting the bad guy; it was about generating more revenue for Percy."

Nikita's not sure why she feels surprised. It's not like she's been able to hold on to the delusion of Division's masquerade as a necessary evil for very long. Michael has – whether intentionally or unintentionally – made it clear that Division does good, that they help people and save the world on a regular basis, but it hadn't take long for Nikita to realize that there were two sides to the story. Sometimes she wonders if Division truly helps more than it hurts.

Michael leans back in the armchair. He doesn't deny it, which is the only clue Nikita needs to comprehend that he isn't exactly happy about this either. But Michael is Michael, and that means loyal to a fault, even when it means turning a blind eye to Percy's more illegal investments.

"He's not even going to dismantle it, is he? He's going to keep dealing the drugs and weapons so he can keep lining his pockets even while he destroys lives."

It's personal. Nikita knows what being an addict is like. She remembers the craving, the need. She knows how self-destructive that life is, and some small part of whatever heart she has left hates the thought of eliminating John Bower only to have Percy take his place. And then revelation dawns again. "He's not just going to force his way in…all this is his way of setting you up to take over Bowers' criminal empire."

"I know you don't like it, that this is not what you  _want_ , Nikita," Michael says, "but it's what we have to do. It's out job. Whether we like it or not."

She tightens her jaw. "Haven't you ever  _once_  paused to think about how many lives we ruin versus how many we save? Percy's become too power hungry and because of him Division is out of control."

"Division has its place," Michael reminds her. "We can't save everyone, Nikita."

Nikita looks down. "But we could try," she answers softly.

* * *

"So, Nikita," Carla says, signaling the waiter to stop grinding fresh black pepper over her Caesar chicken salad. "How has  _your_  week been going?" There's a saucy smile on her face and a glimmer of mischief her in her eyes. She referring, of course, to Nikita and Michael's day together, during which Carla likely assumes they did more than talk and make pancakes.

Nikita can't hide her blush. Hopefully Carla will assume her embarrassment is due to modestly, and not the fact that the very  _thought_  of sleeping with Michael causes her to experience some very bothersome mental images. It's not even an explicit fantasy. It's just him kissing her – that's it. A kiss. That's all her brain can come up with – probably because imagining anything more detailed would make their working relationship even more unbearable and because she's been spending the past few nights wrapped up in his arms. Any further embellishing would keep her up all night.

"How's John these days?" It's a smooth change of subject, made while Nikita calmly scoops up a forkful of salad and slides it between her lips.

Carla smirks. "He's well. How's Michael?"

"Doing fine."

"Better than fine, if my logical reasoning skills are believable. You begged off of lunch the day John tells me Michael 'called in sick'. Coincidence?"

"Not remotely." Nikita takes a sip of her water. "You know how childish some men can be when they're sick."

Carla's expression says she doesn't believe a  _word_  of it, but that's the entire idea. The woman Nikita's portraying isn't  _supposed_ to be a good liar – on the contrary, she's supposed to be a terrible one.

During the rest of their quick lunch, they talk about Michael and John, a book club that Carla is thinking of starting, and possibly meeting up in the mornings to go jogging.

And all the while, Nikita tries not to think about how much of a friend this woman is becoming and how little time there is before she stabs a knife in her back.

She wonders if Division plans on killing Carla right along with her husband.

Knowing Percy, probably.

* * *

Two days later, Michael comes home from 'work' early.

Nikita hears the alarm system beep and finds him upstairs in the master bathroom a few minutes later, covered in blood.

It's only Nikita's training that keeps her from completely flipping out at the sight before her. She stares at him with unabashed shock and something dangerously close to concern on her face.

"It's not my blood," he explains quickly.

She doesn't ask him what happened; she knows better than to even give it a moment's thought. They are both silent as she helps him clean up. Nikita shoves his bloodstained clothes into the nearest trash can, and Michael showers while she scrubs the sink and floor clean.

Ten minutes later, Michael leaves the bathroom with a towel slung around his waist. Steadfastly ignoring the fact that he isn't exactly clothed, Nikita takes careful stock of the injuries that are actually his. There's a nasty contusion on his shoulder and a long gash above his left eyebrow that probably needs stitches.

Without a word, Nikita hands him the ice pack she grabbed from the First Aid kit in the downstairs bathroom. He presses it to his shoulder and winces. She turns away when he begins to shed the towel and picks up a pair of wrinkled jeans from the floor.

"Nikita?"

She turns at the sound of her name to find him still shirtless, but at least now he's wearing pants. She supposes that's an improvement, and swallows past the lump in her throat, "Sit down."

Michael's not exactly used to following her instructions, but he complies, dropping down onto the mattress so she can butterfly the cut on his forehead shut.

He winces once, a trivial moment of weakness, but instead of exploiting it, Nikita just teasingly chides, "Don't be such a baby."

She rests a hand on his shoulder and immediately senses the tightness there. Michael will never admit it aloud – particularly not to her – but it's obvious to Nikita that he's overwrought and edgy.

This assignment is taking a toll on both of them, and Nikita doesn't know what the final cost will be when all is said and done.

They share a long, yearning glance.

"Michael," she whispers softly, suddenly brave enough to tell him something she's wanted to say for a long time. "You're not alone anymore. You know that, right?"

There's a brokenness behind his eyes that shakes her down to her core.

The intensity of the moment is too much for Nikita to bear. She stands up and brushes her palms back and forth on her jeans, inhaling a shaky breath and preparing to flee the room before she says something she'll regret.

"You have me, Michael," she tells him truthfully, pausing in the doorway and turning to look at him. "You'll always have me."

* * *

Michael watches her leave, shoulders down, hair swishing behind her.

She can't know how much those words mean; she can't know how long he's wanted to feel anything remotely resembling that level of acceptance.

Slowly, Michael tugs a tee-shirt over his head, wincing when a movement of his arm irritates the bruise on his shoulder.

Something inside him snaps, the already straining dam breaks and all of a sudden he  _has to go after her._

It takes him less than a minute to descend the stairs. He finds Nikita in the kitchen staring at the inside of the open refrigerator with a blank expression on her face. As he steps into the room he sees her shoulders tense, and he smiles. She's always been unusually perceptive, always aware whenever someone's sneaking up behind her.

"Leave me alone, Michael." She doesn't look at him. The refrigerator door slams shut.

He reaches for her as she turns to push past him; his fingers grasp at her shoulder, brushing against the material of her sweater.

"Nikita."

She stops moving and glances up at him, eyes wide and lips pressed tightly together.

"What?" she breathes.

"You have me too."

Something in the air changes then, a charge that Michael's been trying to ignore for a long time. It's electricity that builds with each passing moment, humming and sparking between them. It's an attraction that's undeniable and a yearning so strong it's nearly impossible to suppress. Her face tips up towards him, her eyelids heavy, and her lips just barely parted.

Slowly they gravitate towards each other. There's a moment of mutual hesitation; as if they both can sense the invisible line they're about to step across, and they both know if they do they'll never be able to go back.

At first it's just a simple press of lips: his on hers, hers on his.

But then the kiss deepens and suddenly it's  _everything_ all at once.

Percy and Amanda and  _Division_ all slip from his mind, and in that moment he damns the consequences because this is  _Nikita_  and she's  _here_ , lithe body pressed against his, the fingers on one hand caressing the back of his neck.

Somehow he's known all along that this moment was never a matter of  _if_  but of  _when_. It was going to happen, was destined from the very beginning. Michael was a fool to believe he could ever resist this. Fighting this attraction to Nikita is merely a slow struggle against the inevitable.

As his loyalties take a backseat to a moment that was always fated to be, Michael's hands move forward to rest on her waist, thumbs pressing against her stomach, gently pulling her body closer to him.

"Michael." Her voice snaps him back to dreary reality, back to the fact that this should never have happened and they really should stop now before things get out of control. But she continues, " _Please_  don't stop."

She's staring up at him with those shadowed eyes, and he can tell that she's waiting for him to back away, to tell her that they can't and shouldn't cross this line.

But in that moment, he discovers that no matter how loudly his brain screams the word _danger_  he not only doesn't  _want_  to stop, he _can't_  stop. For the first time in years he actually feels  _alive,_  and the sensation is addicting.

It's not exactly like he always imagined it would be.

It's better; it's  _real_ , not some impractical fantasy played out in his head because he can't seem to admit that he's just a little more than in love with the woman in his arms.

He kisses her again and –  _oh,_  this will be the death of them. He's sure.

Her arms wrap around his neck as he easily hoists her up onto the nearest counter. Slim legs wrap firmly around his waist. She smells like something soft and feminine – lavender, maybe. His mouth leaves hers to press slow long kisses up her neck and she gasps. "Michael, not here." Her breathing is ragged and uneven, but she manages to catch his face in her hands. She leans forward, pressing her forehead against his. "Upstairs."

Michael steps back so she can slide off of the counter. Her hand latches onto his as she leads him through the kitchen and up the stairs.


	3. never thought I'd live to see it break

_III. never thought I'd live to see it break_

* * *

Nikita's head is spinning as she ascends the staircase, Michael at her heels. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wonders if this is all a dream, if they're really about to do this.

Abruptly, Michael stops walking in the middle of the hallway, using their linked hands to twist her around and into his arms.

She's content for a moment to let him take the lead, completely satisfied to let Michael press her against the wall and kiss her so thoroughly that any uncertainty about this course of action melts away.

Then she takes charge, and they spin as they travel down the hallway and through the bedroom door, carelessly shedding clothes along the way. Her jacket hits the floor; his shirt joins it a second later.

There's a raw, burning desperation here, but it's tempered by the desire to take it slow – make each moment last. They might never have this again, and Nikita wants to remember every minute of it.

She doesn't know where they'll be tomorrow or even the day after that. Today, he's willing to be hers. She'll take whatever he gives her; it'll have to be enough.

All this time they've wasted waiting for something to give; all these weeks spent struggling against something that right now feels so  _right_. It's less about lust – although that is there, blinding and fiery – and more about this deep yearning to connect with someone, to feel human again.

They tumble onto the bed in a chaotic heap, rolling over so Nikita's on top, straddling him. She runs her fingers across his jaw line and leans down to press a slow kiss on his lips.

His hands reach up to cup her cheeks; the touch is reverent. Her eyes slip shut as their bodies turn over again so he can settle on top of her, hands running down her curves and gently gripping her thighs. Hard calluses brush against soft skin.

"Nikita," he whispers in a low, rough voice.

And then she just gives in completely.

It's not perfect, yet – so much like the house they've found themselves living in – that's what  _makes_  it perfect. It's flawed, but they wouldn't be Michael and Nikita without their flaws.

Here they are, stripped bare. No Percy, no Amanda, no Division.

Right here, right now, they are Michael and Nikita the way they were always meant to be.

Together.

* * *

"Are you going to tell me this was a mistake?" Nikita whispers against his chest later, drawing slow spirals on his skin with the tip of her forefinger. As much as she tries to dampen it down, this fear that Michael will want to pretend this never happened keeps crawling under her skin. Michael might be able to delude himself; Nikita  _can't_. She's wanted this for far too long, and now that the dream has become reality, the prospect of letting it go feels like the worst thing in the world.

He doesn't answer for a long moment, but his fingers begin to skim lightly up and down her bare back, tracing the curvature of her spine. The motion is slow and remarkably comforting. Shifting slightly against him, Nikita moves to lay her head on his chest so she doesn't have to look him in the eye.

"No," he answers finally, his voice low and almost inaudible. "I'm not."

He finds her hand and presses a kiss against her knuckles. The lovingness of the gesture takes her breath away.

A tiny smile pulls at the corners of Nikita's lips as her eyes drift shut. Fully content with that small-but-significant reassurance, she lets the steady rise and fall of his chest and the soothing caress of his hand lull her to sleep.

* * *

In the morning they dance around each other with shy smiles and bashful, lingering touches. She places a light kiss on his jaw as she adjusts his tie, his fingers brush hers as he hands her a cup of coffee, she draws her own hand across his shoulder blades as she moves around the kitchen table to sit down across form him. Her whole body comes alive at the mere  _thought_  of his touch, and she shifts restlessly in her seat.

After a silent breakfast – during which Michael studies the paper like he's planning to take an exam on the daily headlines, and Nikita mostly picks at her food – they both flee in different directions. Nikita goes upstairs to change; Michael starts gathering his things downstairs.

"Nikita," he calls up the stairs a few minutes later. "I'm leaving."

"Alright," she steps out of the bedroom and stands on the top step, peering down at Michael as he places a hand on the front doorknob. He hesitates.

It's enough to make her walk down the stairs and step straight into his arms. She presses her lips chastely against his cheek, but before she can pull away completely, he's got his arms wrapped around her waist and his lips are moving against hers.

"I'll see you later tonight," he promises in a thick voice.

When he leaves, she shuts the door behind him and leans back against it, completely aware that she's grinning like an idiot.

Tonight can't come soon enough.

* * *

In the meantime, Nikita has a book club meeting to attend.

It's almost unfortunate that the woman Nikita is portraying is supposed to have a fondness for classic Literature, because although Nikita knows the basic gist of Jane Austen's  _Persuasion_  – Carla's chosen book, since she asked Nikita for her favorite book and Nikita automatically answered straight from the dossier Amanda had given her – she's not completely certain about many of the details of the novel. She had the foresight, following one of their conversations on the subject, to pick up a copy of  _Jane Austen for Dummies_  at her local bookstore, but even that doesn't seem to help her much.

It's not because Nikita's dumb; it's because Nikita's distracted. The meeting is being held at the Bower's home, and Nikita has explicit orders to at the very  _least_  check out the security surrounding John's office.

So towards the end of the hour, when the conversation turns from the novel's connection to  _Northanger Abbey_  to the significance of the title and whether or not it was chosen by Jane Austen or her brother Henry, Nikita excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

"Use the one upstairs, it's the first door on the right," Carla tells her. "The downstairs bath is being renovated."

Nikita almost can't believe her luck. John's office is at the end of the hall, secured by a single lock on the door handle. The twist of a hairpin releases the lock and Nikita steps in, closing the door behind her. Her socked feet don't make a sound on the plush carpet. After searching though the enormous bookshelves and all the unlocked desk drawers, Nikita can only conclude that the journal rests in the only locked drawer in the room. (Assuming, of course, that there are no other hidden compartments or safes she hasn't found.)

She picks at the lock for a few minutes, but the sound of someone coming up the stairs causes her to flee.

Nikita sprints down the hallway and rounds the corner near the stairs quickly.

She stops short in her tracks.

Carla climbs the final step and presses the barrel of a gun to Nikita's forehead. There's an alarmingly smug smirk on her face.

"Hello, Nikita."

* * *

"Carla," Nikita tries to keep her voice even, level. "What's going on?"

"My husband is a very paranoid man. So paranoid, in fact, that he's installed sensors to alert him every time his office door is opened. It opened a few minutes ago, and the only one up there was you. So. What were you doing, Nikita?"

"I just…went to the wrong room on accident." Nikita smiles, trying to maintain her innocence until the last moment. Maybe she hasn't blown it just yet.

"I would love to believe you," Carla says. "Really, I would. But John locked the door this morning. You couldn't have opened it by accident. Which makes me wonder: Who are you, and what do you want?"

Raising her hands slowly, Nikita takes a step backwards. Carla follows her. "Right now, I really want you to put the gun away."

Instinct and training snap together quickly. In one fluid motion, Nikita surges forward and grabs Carla's wrist, twisting it so she loses her grip on the weapon. It only takes a second, but that's enough time for Carla to retaliate by slamming the heel of her hand into Nikita's jaw.

It's then that the quick scuffle escalates into an all-out brawl that quickly culminates in the two women tumbling down the stairs, only earning a nice display of bruises for their efforts.

Nikita rises to her feet first and scrambles for the kitchen. There's a back door in the Bowers' house, and that is her target. Bullets whiz by, but either Carla's a poor shot or she isn't actually trying to hit Nikita. The woman overtakes her from behind as Nikita crosses the threshold and enters the kitchen, and for a moment when Carla's think arms lock securely around her neck, Nikita actually feels worried. But then she twists in Carla's grasp and shoves the woman backwards, using her thin frame to slam her body against the wall. This loosens Carla's hold so Nikita can squirm free.

She rushes away from Carla, towards the block of knives sitting on the counter. She flings the first one she grabs at her attacker and it lodges itself in her thigh. After pulling the impromptu weapon out of her leg, Carla ducks so the next blade Nikita throws embeds itself in the wall behind her instead of in her flesh.

When Carla apparently decides that Nikita has the upper hand for the moment and dashes from the room, Nikita faces a decision: let the woman run off to call her husband and run the risk of Michael being killed, or risk her current state of well-being to try and stop her.

It's not much of a debate.

Nikita catches up to her in the living room and the fight that ensues would put many other more experienced Division agents to shame.

But Nikita was trained by Michael, so every hit, punch and kick involves strategy as well as instinct. As Michael once put it: well-honed instinct serves Nikita well, but when complemented by her natural quick thinking, she's darn near unstoppable.

But not completely unstoppable.

Unfortunately.

Because if Nikita was completely unstoppable, Carla wouldn't have been able to blindside her with the electrical stunner hidden underneath the couch.

* * *

Michael's cover is blown.

He doesn't know exactly how; he just knows that John tries to shot him, fails and all Michael can think is that he has to find Nikita and make sure that she's alright.

She's supposed to be attending a book club meeting at the Bowers' residence, but he arrives to find their home deserted, furniture overturned, decorations thrown from the walls. There's a knife buried a good four inches deep in one of the kitchen walls and a pool of blood on the white tile. He shudders to think that the blood is Nikita's, even though he knows that it could very well belong to whoever she'd thrown the knife at. In this instance, that person could very well be Carla.

He calls Division, and Percy tells him to come back in immediately, to leave Nikita behind.

Michael can't do that; he won't. So he hangs up on his mentor and calls Birkhoff instead. He orders him to activate Nikita's tracking chip.

"I'd love to, dude," Birkhoff grumbles, "but it's either out of range or she's been taken underground. I've been telling Percy for years that the latest changes I've made needed to be retroactive, but does anybody listen to me?"

Figuring that since Birkhoff already  _knows_  nobody is really listening to him, he might as well prove him right; Michael abruptly disconnects the call without saying goodbye.

His mind begins running through the locations he knows John's used, eliminating ones his cover would know about. John wouldn't take Nikita anywhere he thought Michael could find her, but there are at least three places Michael suspects John  _might_  have taken her, none of which have any qualities that would mess with her tracker.

For a moment, just a moment, he wonders if maybe it's all futile. What if she's dead?

His stomach turns at the thought.

* * *

Sometime later, Nikita wakes up to the shock of freezing cold water being thrown over her body. She's in the trunk of a car, staring up at two of the ugliest men she's ever seen. Bower's goons. Fantastic.

One lifts her out of the trunk with one arm.

"Search her!" John Bower barks as his men drag a thrashing Nikita into the ancient warehouse. "Thoroughly," he adds as if it's an afterthought.

Roughly, they strip her down to her undergarments under the guise of searching for wires or bugs.

"You think you're gonna break me?" she taunts. "You've got another thing coming."

Bower leers at her, tongue skimming across his top lip as his eyes rake up and down her body. She wants to take her knife and gouge his eyes out, but part of her thinks that would be entirely too kind.

"Where's Michael?"

John grins. "Sent him out to pick up lunch," he deadpans.

Nikita doesn't understand what that means; she just knows that she can't even allow herself to think that it might be code for "He's dead".

She feels sick.

The click of a woman's high-heels against the concrete floor causes Nikita to turn her head to the side. Carla glides up to her, brushing a long manicured finger across her cheek.

"Oh, Nikita," she sighs, brandishing a black plastic case and removing a long needle. "What are we going to do with you?"

Nikita doesn't know what they inject her with, just that it burns like hell and causes the whole world to blur before her eyes. It takes one measly shove from Carla to push her backwards into a waiting chair. They bind her wrists to the arms of the chair with zip ties; duct tape secures her legs.

Then the questions start, prying and relentless, and she fights against the overwhelming urge to tell them everything. About Division, about Michael, everything.

And when there is nothing more to say, no more of her soul to freely give away, no more ways she can betray Percy and Division and Michael, Carla slips a scrambled cell between her tied hands.

"Time to call your hubby," she jeers.

* * *

Nikita's vanished without a trace. Carla and John are equally well-hidden.

With nowhere else to look, Michael returns to their house. Michael curses loudly, just as his cell phone rings.

"Michael." There's a dead quality to Nikita's tone. Her words are slurred.

"Nikita? Where are you?"

"Michael, don't—"

"Hello, Michael," Carla's voice is impartial. "Let's get one thing straight. I know that you and Nikita aren't  _really_  husband and wife. I know that you were posing as a married couple to gain the trust of me and my husband. Nevertheless, one thing about your sham of a marriage was real: you're in love with her. So…unless you want me to kill her very, very slowly, you're going to do exactly as I say. Don't even think about playing the hero."

And because Carla is apparently right about his feelings for Nikita, Michael grits his teeth and does as he's told.

"What are you going to do to him?" Nikita doesn't think before she speaks; her words and her thoughts are running together in a horribly scary way.

"You'll find out." Carla says as John motions to his men. They move towards Nikita,

Nikita struggles and fights, but there are too many of them and their hands are everywhere.

Unceremoniously, they throw her into one of the huge shipping containers stacked in the center of the room and lock her inside.

It's dark and cold.

Nikita doesn't have an inherent dislike of confined spaces or darkness, for that matter, but the absolute blackness is disconcerting and the fact that she's practically naked in addition to being freezing and covered in filth only makes it worse.

Drawing her knees up to her chest, Nikita wraps her arms tightly around her legs and shivers.

She hopes Michael finds her soon.

* * *

Michael goes where he's supposed to go, obediently forfeits his weapons to John's goons, and even lets them rough him up a bit before they take him to John. Carla stands at her husband's side, and Michael notes the bruises on the woman's arms and the bandage wrapped around her thigh with a sense of satisfaction. Good for Nikita.

"Tell me, Michael, just what exactly you thought you were doing, sticking your nose into my business?" John's seething, pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. "I trusted you."

"Where's Nikita?" Michael asks.

"Isn't he a  _dear_?" Carla sneers, stepping forwards. She turns to her husband. "I told you, darling. He loves her." She says it so matter-of-fact, like she's just said that the sky is blue and the grass is green and oh, by the way,  _Michael loves Nikita_.

Why on earth did they even  _wonder_  if Carla was involved? Her brash attitude now, coupled with the comfortable way she's handling the black gun in her hands, makes Michael feel almost stupid for not putting more stock into the possibility of her participation in John's business.

Carla snaps her fingers and two of her underlings pry open the doors of the shipping container. A few seconds later they emerge with a dirty, only partially clothed Nikita. Michael watches as she winces and shies away from the light. Still, ever the fighter, the second her eyes focus on him she twists out of their hold and sprints towards him.

Two long strides are all it takes him to catch her halfway. Neither John nor Carla seems to care. In fact, it almost seems that they're rather pleased by the open display of affection since Michael and Nikita have nothing to gain by continuing their ruse and are simply confirming Carla's previous statement that the love between them is real.

Nikita curls her face into his shirt and clings to him for dear life; Michael steels himself for whatever retribution is soon to follow. John seems to have the same overpowering sense of vengeance that Michael often sees shining in Nikita's eyes. She pulls back slightly and their gazes connect.

She's wound up tightly, Michael can tell. Everything they've done to her – and Michael isn't even certain  _what_ they've done to her, just that her glazed eyes tell him some form of drugs were involved – keeps building and building inside. He's surprised that she hasn't snapped yet. Nikita's the strongest person he knows; it's never made her invulnerable.

Even through the haze, he sees that aforementioned spark in her eyes, and he knows she wants to fight. He almost shakes his head, but her lips are moving, silently counting down. _One…two…_

On _three_ , they both spring into action. It's an explosion.

John, Carla, and their goons were all to preoccupied watching them act like the docile Michael and Nikita they'd come to know.

They've trained together enough to be intimately familiar with the other's strengths and weaknesses. They fight like one person, fitting together with a flawlessness that enables them to surmount innumerable odds. They're a team: mentor and student who are quickly becoming equals.

The fact that the Bowers' goons are armed doesn't even play into the situation. Nikita's disarmed the first and shot the second before it even matters, and between her and Michael, it only takes a grand total of fifteen seconds before all the extra players are out of the equation.

In the chaos that follows, John grabs Nikita at the same time Michael gains the upper hand on Carla. John has the barrel of his gun pressed to Nikita's temple, and Michael has one arm around Carla's neck, and the other steadies the Glock pointed at John.

It's just the two couples – Michael and Carla, John and Nikita – facing off. Weapons drawn, safety's off, and trigger fingers getting itchier with every passing second.

"Now." John's chest is heaving, but the fact that Michael could easily kill his own wife doesn't seem to faze him at all. "You two might have lied about a lot of things, but one thing was real. You're in love with her."

Nikita's blinking furiously and trying to mouth something, but Michael can't quite catch it. What he does catch is the glimmer of a blade in her left hand. How on earth did John miss it?

"What is this all about, Michael?" John asks, "Do you want my business? Is that it?"

Michael just snaps Carla's neck. Breathing heavily, he looks up as her body hits the floor to see that Nikita's driven her knife into John's thigh. She disarms and kills him in movements so fluid they almost look effortless.

The moment his body hits the floor, Nikita collapses. The adrenaline rush got her this far, but now that the imminent danger is gone, she's obviously fading fast. Michael manages to catch her before she falls completely, but she's already losing consciousness.

"Michael," she whispers in a soft, vulnerable voice, "can we go?"

He lifts her into his arms easily.

"Yeah," he says. "Let's go."

* * *

Back at Division, Michael's stuck filling out papers for hours while the doctors examine Nikita. Not knowing how she's doing kills him, but he tells himself that there is a limit to how concerned he can be. Inside Division, she's not the woman he loves – and damn if he doesn't have to stop thinking of her like that – she's an asset. Plain and simple.

"She's in pretty rough shape," Birkhoff tells him when he stops by under the guise of refilling Michael's coffee. "Doc says she was beaten badly, but she'll recover. The sadistic son of a bitch broke every finger on her left hand before you got there."

Michael's not exactly sure how _that_  injury happened. He generally has an awareness of Nikita, especially when they're fighting in tandem, and he can't recall her favoring the arm or hand, though he does remember realizing that it was swelling before the cavalry showed up.

Frowning, Michael sips his coffee and keeps writing. Considering the fact that Division is a Black Ops program, one would think that they would be able to skimp on things like paperwork and bureaucracy, but Michael suspects that Percy's doing this to keep him out of the doctors' hair – which is where he would be even if it  _wasn't_ Nikita.

Two hours later, Birkhoff returns with a sloppily made turkey sandwich, and a fresh pen.

He's sure she'll have her own bout of paperwork once they let her go, but the waiting makes him anxious and irritable. What does Percy know – or think he knows – about the last few hours of their assignment?

He grits his teeth and continues scribbling.

"Michael," Birkhoff sticks his head into the room through the door. "Doctors say you can see her now."

* * *

Her whole arm is in a sling, her hand is bandaged, and there's a nasty bruise forming above her right eye, but she's alive and they say she'll heal.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

She shrugs and then winces. "They're not giving me nearly enough pain meds."

"Percy wants you focused for the debrief."

"Who's handling it? Amanda?"

Michael nods.

"What do I say? What if she knows about us?"

"She doesn't know; she  _can't_  know. Tell her nothing but what she wants to hear. Relationship are  _dangerous_ , Nikita. For both parties involved. She can't know about us. Do you understand?"

"I understand." She glances down. "Where does that leave us, Michael?

And they've done it – morphed back into agent and handler, student and mentor. They aren't equals anymore. She's yielding to whatever he wants to do, willing to take whatever he is willing to give, no matter how shallow the depth.

For just a moment, he almost hates her for making it his decision, because neither choice is a good one. If they go back to the way things were, he loses her. If they continue this relationship under Percy's nose and he ends up using them against each other, Michael will never forgive himself. In finding Nikita, he's found a piece of his soul that he believed was lost forever. He doesn't want to lose it again, doesn't want to  _lose_ her again.

"Michael?" she asks again; her voice is soft and careful, as if she sees the turmoil boiling inside him and wants to sooth it away.

"It's just that…" He struggles with the words not because they're untrue, but because they _are_ , and he's never been  _good_  at stuff like this. "It's been a  _long_  time since anything as good as you has happened in my life. I'm not ready to lose that."

For one moment – just one – he thinks she's about to cry. He watches her blink back tears even as she scoots forwards on the exam table. The fingers of her good hand stretch up to brush against his cheek, and there's gratitude in her eyes as she pulls him down for a slow, sensuous kiss.

And – oh,  _damn_  – how did he  _ever_  think he would be able to continue resisting this?

"Michael?" she whispers softly. "What are we going to do?"

He doesn't answer because he doesn't  _know_. Their entire relationship has been unprecedented from the start. He was never supposed to become attached to her, never supposed to care for her.

And under no circumstances was he supposed to fall in love with her.

Percy will use them against each other – drain them dry until they've both bled the other to death. The thought turns his blood cold.

With a sigh, Nikita leans forward, pressing her cheek against his chest. There's so much trust in the action, so much complete surrender and steady reliance that the worry constricting his chest subsides.

They have each other.

It'll have to be enough for now.


	4. it's getting dark and it's all too quiet

_IV. it's getting dark and it's all too quiet_

* * *

Division is as bitter and callous as ever.

For the first three months after the assignment ends, Nikita isn't allowed to return to her apartment. Instead, she's assigned a room inside Division normally reserved for a recruit.

In short, she's grounded until future notice.

Even though she says nothing about it, Michael can tell that she hates being cooped up almost as much as she hates sitting around twiddling her thumbs. (She probably wishes she actually  _could_  twiddle her thumbs. Broken fingers are not fun.)

While he's there – which isn't often – Michael spends most of his time in his office. Nikita divides her time between sulking in her room, physical therapy, and her now bi-weekly sessions with Amanda. Division's resident shrink seems convinced that  _something_ happened between Nikita and Michael on this mission, and she's bound and determined to find out precisely what transpired inside that house.

If there's one thing that Michael knows with absolute certainty about Amanda, it's that she hates it when she doesn't know everything. She  _cannot tolerate_  not having it all figured out. And Michael knows that since Nikita's come back, Amanda hasn't been able to _connect_  with the girl in the same way. It's infuriating the woman. Truly, Michael shouldn't be so unrealistically happy about this development, but the thought that Amanda has a puzzle she can't quite manage to fit together is oddly amusing.

Besides, since Nikita's doctors – who never agree on  _anything_  – have  _unanimously_ ordered her to remain inside Division for the duration of her 'recovery,' Michael believes that Amanda's really the one pulling the strings.

If Percy is Division's father, Amanda is the organization's overbearing mother – always insisting that she knows best.

And as  _everyone_  seems to have learned by now: "If Mamma ain't happy…"

Based on the terse way the shrink has been interacting with his agent, Michael has a sneaky suspicion that Nikita hasn't exactly been making Amanda's job easy. Her snarky attitude is a good defense.

Because if Amanda ever finds out that they slept together…Percy will know.

And once Percy knows…

It'll only be a matter of time for both of them.

* * *

Nikita is bored.

She can't shoot; she can't spar. Talking to Amanda makes her either want to throw up or drive a knife through the woman's eye. She can't even see Michael. He's out on actual assignments, or supervising actual operations with recruits who are younger and more inexperienced than Nikita. Honestly, she isn't certain if it's the boredom that's driving her mad or the fact that she can't  _stand_  not being in the field.

The possibility that she simply  _misses_  Michael is fleeting and untrue. (At least, that's what she tells herself in order to make it through the days.)

She knows that she can't see him, and the loss of his presence in her life makes her heartsick and lethargic. Although during her sessions with Amanda, she claims it's simply restlessness.

Amanda doesn't buy it, and Nikita doesn't care.

One day she returns from physical therapy to find a hardcover copy of  _Pride and Prejudice_ sitting on her pillow.

There's no note, no sign at all who left it there, except when she flips open the cover, she sees the engraving from the other-Michael to the other-Nikita, and she knows who gave it to her.

She's never been much for reading, but…well, she's so  _bored_.

Plopping down on the bed, Nikita flips to the first chapter.

_It is a truth universally acknowledged…_

* * *

Nikita's hand begins to slowly heal, but even after the splint is removed, they still don't let her out of Division. Michael has several intense arguments with both Percy and Amanda about it, but eventually he backs down, scared that they'll realize Nikita is more than an asset to him.

Finally, she corners him in the hallway. "Why won't they let me out?"

With a disapproving frown, he grabs her good arm and ushers her down the hallway and into his office. The door shuts loudly behind them.

For a long minute, they stare at each other. They haven't been alone together since those few stolen moments while Nikita was in the infirmary.

"They're trying to make sure you're alright before they send you back into the outside world."

"I'm fine, Michael!" she exclaims impatiently. "I don't even want to be on missions. I just want my apartment, a pastry from my lovely little bistro down the street, and a good couple of hours of retail therapy! What I need is space." She pauses, and then her voice lowers. "And you."

It's impossible to miss the vulnerability in her tone. Nikita does  _not_  like admitting that she's dependant on others. With a sigh, he leans back against his desk. "I know, Nikita. Believe me when I tell you that I'm not the reason you're being cooped up. You would be relaxing in your apartment right now if it was up to me."

"Can you talk to Percy? He listens to you." She steps closer, places her hand on his thigh.

"Nikita…" It's a low growl of a warning, tinged with just a hint of playfulness. He moves her hand and brushes his fingers against her neck, letting them tangle in her hair.

He is the one who draws her even closer; he is the one who pulls her down for a kiss. He keeps the connection soft, light, hoping to comfort, not impassion.

"It'll be over soon," he promises, even though he really has no idea if what he speaks is the truth. Nevertheless, he wills it to be so. "You'll be home soon."

* * *

Later that afternoon, Amanda enters Nikita's room without knocking. Nikita shoves Jane Austen's  _Persuasion_ underneath a pillow. She's already devoured  _Pride and Prejudice_  and _Emma,_  but there's something about Anne Elliot and Frederick Wentworth's story that resonates deep inside her. She and Michael have been caught somewhere between 'half-agony and half-hope' for far too long now.

"Percy has a mission for you," Amanda says, ignoring the guilty look on Nikita's face.

Nikita glances down at her bandaged hand, and then back up at Amanda.

The shrink smirks. "And  _that's_  exactly why the assignment is for you."

"What if I don't want to?"

"You want to," Amanda waves a white keycard under Nikita's nose. "You do this, and Percy lets you go home."

She smiles, and it's like a knife twisting in Nikita's abdomen.

* * *

"Nikita is doing  _what_?" Michael practically screams, incredulous.

"Nikita is helping you interrogate your witness," Amanda answers, looking entirely too calm about the situation for Michael's comfort level. That means one of two things: either she's on Percy's side or this was her idea in the first place. Michael's money is on the latter. This has Amanda's fingerprints all over it.

Above their heads, the display of monitors in the ops room clearly shows Nikita, clothed in hospital scrubs, her injured arm wrapped in a sling. He sees trepidation in her face and the trembling of her hands. They're keeping the man in the bowels for Division, in the sewers, where there is nothing but slime and filth.

Michael feels his jaw clench.

She will  _hate_  him for this.

* * *

The man on the bed has been shot in the leg.

Nikita has no idea who shot him, and it isn't her job to find out.

She's supposed to be a nurse kidnapped to tend to him. This man does not know that Division has him, and Nikita is supposed to keep it that way. They want her to become an ally, a confidant.

She needs to appear weak and easily manipulated, thus, her still-healing arm is wrapped in a sling, and she's supposed to be cowed and fearful in Michael's presence.

This type of acting is a bit of a stretch for her. She's used to a few various cons, but they're mostly ways to seduce others into giving away their secrets. Even the Bowers were a seduction, although of a different sort. This is different. This is purposefully allowing someone to perceive her as vulnerable so that false vulnerability can be exploited. It's a seduction of another matter entirely.

She's letting him use her so she can use him.

It's exactly the type of trick Percy loves.

Both of the prisoner's wrists are handcuffed to the bed, and he appears to be semi-conscious.

She slices open his pant leg with a scalpel and works quietly to clean the wound and wrap it in gauze. Following Amanda's orders, she pays little attention to him when he tries to engage her. Amanda told her to appear hesitant, that her timidity would add to her credibility.

"C'mon," the man tries to push himself up into a sitting position, "You're not with them…"

"They told me not to talk to you." She lets a hint of nervousness color the words.

"Do you know who they are?" the man asks.

She shakes her head. "No."

The man glances around, taking stock of the room. She can see the wheels in his mind turning. What is the best way to get out of this situation?

His eyes land on Nikita, and she can practically  _feel_  Amanda's smug, tight-lipped smile.

"Help me," he says, "and I'll help you."

"I…they have my son. I–"

Michael's entrance cuts her off. Nikita instinctively rises to her feet, but forces her self to step away from him rather than towards him. In here, he is not an ally.

His gaze bounces from the prisoner to her, and his face twists with rage that Nikita tries to tell herself is fake. Stepping forward, his hand closes around her bad arm. She allows herself to wince. His grip is hard and forceful, and her whole limb feels like it is on fire as he pulls her away from the baddie and towards the door.

"What did I tell you, huh?" He's disapproving and she feels embarrassed and ashamed. " _You_   _don't talk to him_. You sew him up, and then you can go back home to your little boy. All you have to do is  _keep your stupid mouth shut!_ " His face is inches from hers and for just a second, she's scared of him. He has the upper hand, and he could very easily overpower her. Besides, she doesn't even know what his orders for this assignment are.

She trusts Michael; she  _doesn't_  trust Percy.

"I was just–"

"You were nothing!" he yells.

Shoving her out of the room, he slams the door behind them. She thinks he's going to say something, an apology, a good job, but instead he lets go of her arm and stomps away.

* * *

An hour later, she's sent back inside to check on the prisoner, and he tries to pull her onto his side again with promises that he'll help her get her son back.

Nikita pretends to think it over, to weight trusting him against trusting the man Michael's pretending to be.

She's about to pretend to choose him when the door busts open and Michael storms in. He yanks her to her feet, and she's about to say something about being sorry when his hand strikes her face.

He hits her, and he knows it's an unforgivable mistake the second he makes it.  _My foster father beat me,_ echoes in his head like a mantra, and Michael thinks that she can't possibly hate him as much as he currently hates himself for doing this, for falling into Percy's cleverly placed trap.

She's fallen onto the grimy floor, and she scrambles backwards as she tries to stand. He wants to reach out and help her, but he can't, not with the captive lying right there on the bed and Amanda, Birkhoff and Percy watching their every move.

Instead, he hauls her to her feet and shoves her out of the room.

The door shuts behind them. He reaches out for her, but she flinches and shies away from him. Every nuance of her body language is telling him to stay away. There is a fresh bruise forming on her cheek where Michael's hand connected with her face, and the sight of it makes him feel like a monster. Will he  _never_  be able to protect this woman without inevitably hurting her?

She slips away from him and out of the room. He can't bring himself to follow her just yet, not until this is all over.

* * *

It takes three more hours of pulling and tugging, manipulation and deception, before their victim finally spills his guts. Honestly, Nikita doesn't know enough about the man's identity or the reason Division has him to fully understand the significance of the information he gives them, but at the end of the day, she doesn't particularly care. Percy seems pleased, and if he's pleased, then she can go home. Although, Nikita's isn't sure if he's happy because he has the information he wanted or if he's just been enjoying his puppet show.

Amanda smirks as she hands Nikita her access card. "Good job. Here's your ticket home."

Nikita takes the key from her and pockets it without a word.

* * *

"Nikita!"

He catches the elevator before the doors close.

She's slouched in the corner, cradling her aching arm against her chest. Tears burn in her eyes and she can't meet his gaze.

"You know I didn't want to do that," he says.

Fury builds in her chest. "But you  _did_ , Michael! God, are you even capable of making your own decisions? Does Percy choose what cereal you eat in the morning?" Her cheek still stings from where he slapped her, and her hand throbs because they insisted on taking off her finger splints for the interrogation. And yet, somehow, his betrayal manages to hurt worse.

He glares at her, and she knows he's angry. She struck a nerve. Still, she keeps digging herself deeper.

"Is this how it's going to be, Michael? Division above all else? If he told you to put a bullet in my brain, would you?"

"No." His hands cup her cheeks, turning her face so their gazes meet. "No," he says again.

"So how is that any different from this?" She gestures to the bruise swelling on her cheek, just below her eye.

"You're not dead, are you?"

"Not yet," she counters, and something clicks in her head.  _Chess_. They're playing chess with their own damn relationship. Michael's in it for the long haul, because he's Michael, and all he wants to do is keep her safe. He's patient and crafty enough to play by Division's rules and actually have a shot at winning. Nikita isn't like that at all. She's impetuous and passionate and she just wants  _him_. Division, Percy, and Amanda be damned.

"We can't keep doing this, Michael. It'll break us."

He sighs, deep and heavy. "I know."

There are so many things she still wants to say in response, but before her mouth can form the words, he kisses her. It's heady and breathtaking, and desire jolts through her body like a shockwave. His hands curve around her shoulders, and he holds her gently, almost tenderly.

Their lips part even as Nikita's fingers itch against his silk shirt. She wants him; he wants her. This is something they've both been bottling up inside for far too long. Love and Division are a volatile mixture.

His forehead touches hers. When he speaks, his voice is thick and emotional, "C'mon. I'll take you home."

Leaning forward, she curls up against his chest as he presses a kiss to her hair. He isn't _completely_  forgiven, but her head is spinning from his kiss and she's eager to get home, so she'll let the argument drop for now. "Alright."

* * *

Michael follows her up the stairs to her apartment and waits patiently while she fiddles with the lock. Digging around in her freezer until he finds something cold for her to put on her bruise, he tosses her a bag of vegetables. She winces when the frozen peas touch her cheek, but keeps the compress against her skin as she sinks down onto the couch.

He lowers himself onto the ottoman next to her, reaching over to caress her face as he tucks her hair behind her ear. She doesn't flinch at his touch this time.

"What are we going to do?" she murmurs.

Putting his hand over hers, he lifts the peas for a second to check on the contusion. Something clenches inside his gut.  _Never again._

"We're going to get out."

She sets aside the peas then, and sits up, leaning towards him and pressing her fingers against his neck to draw his mouth to hers.

When she kisses him, it is certain and sure. He's grateful, because maybe this means she doesn't completely loathe him after all. She's not hesitant, nor is she tentative.

He doesn't deserve her. He doesn't deserve  _this_. Not after all he's done. And yet here it is – here  _she_ is – kissing him with a sweetness and a sincerity that defies description.

"Where would we go?" she asks when their lips part. She scoots forward to settle onto his lap and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss against his neck, right below his earlobe.

Damn. He can't even  _think_  when she does that. "Anywhere," he says. Her lips move to his earlobe as she slips her hands underneath his suit jacket and slides it off his shoulders. Her good hand moves to his tie next, undoing the knot clumsily. She's still having difficulty

"Promise," she whispers against his skin as he stands with her still in his arms. She keeps her legs wrapped snugly around his waist, and he tries not to trip on her ottoman while maneuvering them into her hallway.

"I promise."

She smiles – a real, genuine smile that he hasn't seen in the longest time – and leans to kiss the other side of his neck.

They almost don't make it to Nikita's bed.

* * *

She awakens when she reaches out for him and realizes that he isn't beside her anymore. Rubbing her eyes, Nikita crawls out of bed and grabs a silk robe hanging on her closet door. She's still knotting the tie around her waist as she steps into the living room.

His briefcase is open on her ottoman, and all kinds of files and documents are spread out on her coffee table. He looks up when she settles herself on the sofa next to him, tucking her legs beneath her body and leaning easily against the armrest.

"What's going on?" Nikita asks softly, taking an eight-by-ten photo from the piles of papers. It's a man who looks distinctly Middle Eastern. "Who is this?" A second later, she doesn't know why she asked, the answer is so obvious.  _Kasim_. "Let me guess. Percy doesn't know you have this?"

His silence answers her question. "I have to find him, Nikita. I don't have the resources to do it on my own."

She looks down at her hands sadly. "I know."

"We have to stay until I find him." The unspoken thought is  _after that we can leave_. After that, Division will have no hold on them.

The thought enters her head that Percy will probably try to find a new stronghold on their lives, something else to hold over their heads to keep them docile and obedient. She can't bear to dwell on that idea for any longer than a few seconds.

Brushing the notion aside, Nikita nods her head and heads to the kitchen. "I'll make coffee."

Despite the caffeine, she falls asleep with her head against his shoulder.

* * *

A few hours later, he stirs, and she wakes up to find him gathering up his clothes. He shrugs on his jacket and begins to knot his tie.

"Please," she whispers, reaching up and catching his hand with hers as he begins to brush past the couch. "Don't leave, Michael. Stay with me."

"I have to go," he tells her miserably. "Percy called."

There are a thousand things she wants to say, but the words never make it past her lips. Her heart sinks in her chest. Division over her. All the time. "I'm starting to feel like the other woman in this relationship," she deadpans.

He  _almost_  smiles before he kisses her goodbye.

* * *

Thank goodness for Seymour Birkhoff.

The techie doesn't necessarily  _like_  doing favors for either Michael  _or_ Nikita, but Michael can be very persuasive when he wants to be. In this case, his chosen form of persuasion is threatening to tell Percy about several of  _Birkhoff's_ plentiful indiscretions, so the techie readily acquiesces to Michael's demands. His main request being that Birkhoff hack into the system Percy uses to keep tabs on his assets and fix it so there is no way for anyone to tell that he was at Nikita's apartment the night before for any longer than a few minutes.

Additionally, he now has a good four nights a week when his tracker will say he's in his apartment when he's really at Nikita's place. He doesn't exactly  _tell_  Birkhoff where he's planning on sneaking off to, but Michael has a feeling that the nerd knows and is just smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

They aren't exactly friends, but Michael knows that Seymour likes having him and Nikita around in his own weird way. Michael doesn't think the nerd would willingly to do anything to jeopardize that.

Well, he hopes.

As the days pass, they're more careful outside of Division than inside. Inside, if they were stumbled upon during a conversation, it could very easily be made to appear as if they were discussing an assignment. Interaction inside Division – constantly monitored and inspected though it may be – is at least considered acceptable behavior. On the outside, however…

Beyond the concrete walls of their second home, they aren't supposed to interact. Occasionally it is assumed that a handler will stop by and check on an asset to ensure that everything in their cover life is all right.

If Percy ever discovers Michael and Nikita are in the same place at the same time it will be bad for both of them.

Betrayal should feel worse than this, Michael realizes. He's essentially stabbing a knife in the back of the man who saved his life, and he feels no remorse. Any regret is instantly wiped away by the undeniable thrill of simply  _being with Nikita_.

Sometimes he can feel the pressure of everything threatening to cave in; he sees the tension in Nikita's shoulders, hears the thundering rumbling in the distance, and knows that it'll only be a matter of time before they're discovered.

He works hard to ensure that Nikita understands the knife-edge they walk every day, the risks they both take every time their fingers brush in the hallway, every time he slips into her apartment undetected, and every time she levels that dark, heavy gaze at him. She knows he's powerless under the weight of that look; she knows how futile it is for him to try to fight it. Michael is completely aware she uses that knowledge to her advantage every opportunity she gets.

He recognizes that the very thing binding them so strongly together could very well be the weapon used to tear them viciously apart. He  _will not_  call this thing love, won't even allow himself to think of the word because if he does, if he accepts the fact that he's desperately in love with Nikita, well that makes her even more of a weakness.

But then he wakes up in the morning to the sweet sensation of Nikita pressing soft kisses to his shoulder blades or the smell of something delicious cooking in the kitchen. He sees her curled up on the plush couch in her living room, book in one hand, drink in the other, and he almost can't comprehend how this gentle, compassionate woman is also so lethal.

Nikita is as gorgeous as she is deadly and as irresistible as a siren's song.

* * *

One thing they can do now that her hand has healed is spar. Their verbal barbs – flung back and forth with biting precision and carefully veiled undertones – have never been so cutting; the physical aspect of their constant give-and-take has never been so emotionally charged. They fight with an unmatched intimacy; they know each other so well they can predict the other's movements in advance.

Nikita may say that Michael is a tease, but she taunts him in ways he's sure she'll never know: the sway of her hips, the rise and fall of her chest, the slow grin that spreads across her lips when she's so sure she has him this time.

He loves it.

(He loves  _her_.)

There's a connection between them when they fight, a wordless communication. It's a code Birkhoff could never crack and a language Amanda could never interpret. Even Percy would be hard pressed to understand the intricacies of their actions.

Sometimes they trade light, almost teasing blows. They crash to the mats with playful smiles and silent laughter.

When they are angry – at each other, at Percy, it doesn't matter – a sharpness and tension fills the room. Sometimes Michael leaves with a swollen lip and black-and-blue contusions. Their first real  _fight_  involves bruises and bloody noses. It's late at night and all the recruits are tucked snugly in their beds, even Percy and Amanda aren't around to find them.

She's angry with him because he interfered with a mission when he thought she was in trouble. ("You wouldn't have done that if I was another recruit, Michael! I can take care of myself.") The kicker is she's right. For a second, all he could think was that she was in trouble and he needed to help her.

The match ends with no clear victor. This is mostly because the adrenaline kicks in, and _somebody_  starts kissing instead of kicking, completely switching gears so that now everybody's winning. The both of them are volatile creatures, passionate and impulsive. When those qualities mix, the result is explosive.

And sometimes, Michael knows, dangerously destructive.

* * *

They get very, very good at sneaking around.

They've  _always been_ good at sneaking around; it's part of their job description. But this brings them to completely new levels of subterfuge and insubordination, especially considering the fact that Division is hardly the easiest place to practice deception.

They sneak weighted glances and looks during briefings, they tiptoe around the hallways until they find one of security's few blind spots, and when they just can't stand it anymore, Michael pulls her aside away from the camera's lenses so he can kiss her senseless.

She gives him a key to her apartment almost right away, and he slips into her bed late at night, teasing her thighs with cold toes and peppering the back of her neck with kisses. Most mornings she'll wake to find him gone, but every once and a while he stays, limbs hopelessly intertwined with hers.

He's in her bed and in her heart and she tells herself she doesn't need any more than that. She'll take what he gives her and  _it will be enough_  because  _it has to be enough_  because _there is nothing more to have._  All he gives is all she can take, so there is no sense in wanting more.

(But sense never stopped anybody from doing anything.)

Nothing changes on the surface, but below the depths of the water, Nikita feels the storm churning. She hears the clock steadily counting down, precious seconds ticking by little by little.

Time is their enemy. The longer this affair continues, the more chances there are for Percy to find out about them, if he doesn't know already.

This is the life they live now. Secrets buried under little white lies and carefully constructed half-truths. Fleeting moments stolen in the shadows, hidden away from the limelight. Every day is lived on foolishly borrowed time, every moment spent knowing the inescapable end, waiting for it, wishing for it and dreading it all at once.

It can't last.

* * *

"I thought we were done with these kinds of missions?" Her voice is low and her tone is tentative. She's scared she'll be overheard.

They're in the armory; she's gathering together what she needs for her upcoming assignment: knives and guns and things-that-go-boom. He has obviously picked up on her inner turmoil and is pointlessly trying to keep her calm.

"Amanda recommended you." It's supposed to be encouraging; it's not. In this instance, Amanda's favor feels less like an accolade and more like a death sentence.

"Does she know? About us?"

"She," he chooses his next word carefully, "…suspects."

They're quiet for a few seconds more until Nikita asks softly, "Michael, why are you sending me on this mission?"

"I didn't order this. Trust me."

She turns away. Trust is such a tricky thing. Strong and binding, yet at the same time, it's all too easily broken. "But you could put a stop to it, send someone else?"

"Listen, if I stick my neck out for you even  _once_  Percy will be closer to knowing than suspecting, and we'll both be in trouble."

She has a reply, but it dies on her tongue. His tone is so no-nonsense, so stubborn. There is no point in arguing. He's decided, and he will not change his mind."

"Relationships are dangerous, Nikita. Not just for you, do you understand?"

Oh, she understands. She understands that he's worried about what Percy will do; he's scared of the consequences, scared of rebuke. Somewhere deep down he doesn't want to betray the man to whom he still mistakenly believes he owes everything. Never mind that by being with Nikita, he already has plunged a knife in Percy's back ten times over. All he's doing now is claiming that he doesn't want to twist it. Michael's still under the misguided belief that he can use Division to get to Kasim. As for Nikita, she's done fearing Percy.

She takes her gun and her bag and walks away without another word.

* * *

When the worst assignment of Nikita's life finally ends, all she wants to do is crawl into a ball and cry. She sits motionless in the van on the way back to Division, her fingers pressed against her lips and Michel's jacket wrapped loosely around her shoulders. She clings to the coat like it's a lifeline, a link to reality.

Part of her wonders if Percy  _knows_ , if he gave her this assignment simply to torture them both, to remind them that he's the grand puppet master and all he need do to make them jump is pull on their strings.

Over the next week, Amanda pokes and prods, picking at scabs. Nikita doesn't know how on earth she's expected to move past everything when Amanda keeps constantly bringing it up.

She wakes in the middle of the night with the name  _Josephine_  echoing in her ears, remembering phantom touches, loveless caresses lost somewhere in the past. It's easier when Michael is there because she can latch onto him, feel the warmth of his chest, the tenderness of his embrace, and the press of his lips on her skin. She can hear that smoky voice that she loves so much telling her everything is going to be all right, that she's  _never_ going to have to be Josephine again.

He's there to chase away the ghost of yet another woman who never actually  _was_ ; he erases the memories of an embrace that wasn't his with loving kisses pressed tenderly against her shoulder blades as his fingers sweep her long hair aside.

Some small part of Nikita  _hates_  that he is so willing put Division before her. Rational says that he isn't. He's putting her above himself. Michael is perfectly willing to take her anger, to spend his time helping her lick the wounds he's inadvertently inflicted while trying to keep her safe. He hurts her to keep her safe, she hurts him because she hurts, and he hurts because he's hurting her. It's a vicious, never-ending cycle, and she feels the tension, pulling and tugging. The tie between them is taut and ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

She wants out of Division. She doesn't want to be part of the things that they do, the lives that they take. There is blood on her hands and she wants it gone.

She doesn't say a word to Michael about the guilt that gnaws at her.

But then there are the nights when he isn't there, when she wakes up with nothing but memories.

And she knows: they're stronger together; they're  _better_  together.

She takes the pregnancy test three weeks later.

She's in her own apartment, sitting on the bathroom counter, when the results appear on the little white stick.

It's positive.

Nikita's never been so scared in all her life. Almost dying doesn't even compare to this level of fear.

She doesn't need a paternity test. Josephine used protection; Nikita did not. It's her darned impetuous nature out to get her yet again.

The baby is Michael's.


	5. and i can't trust anything now

_V. and I can't trust anything now_

* * *

Michael's plan to stay inside Division until Kasim was dead is scrapped the instant the word _pregnant_  slips through Nikita's lips.

He doesn't even ask if she's sure, doesn't ask how it's possible. Birth control has never been a hundred percent effective, and Michael can think of at least one time when they've forgone protection completely. (The first time, for instance, had been so spur of the moment, neither of them had even stopped to  _think_  about contraceptives.)

He absolutely refuses to lose another child in a hopeless quest for vengeance. He'll get Kasim another way.

She's staring at the floor, winding her fingers together, and Michael realizes that she's taking his silence as anger or disapproval. Stepping forwards, he places his hands on her shoulders and gently tugs her towards him. She collapses against his chest instantly, curling her arms around his middle and sighing against his shirt.

"We have to get out of here," he says quietly.

"What will they do, Michael?" Her face is turned into his silk shirt, but he can still make out her words.

He can't answer. He's heard of female agents getting pregnant, and best as he remembers, almost all of them terminated the pregnancy – or were forced to terminate the pregnancy – once Percy found out. The only exception was a girl who was already scheduled for cancelation. Percy let her carry the baby to keep her docile while he waited for an appropriate suicide mission. The little girl was put up for adoption two days before her mother died from a gunshot wound to the head.

She seems to hear the words he's not saying. "How long do we have?"

* * *

Not long enough, as it turns out.

Two weeks later a routine physical puts a swift end to the 'secret' part of Nikita's pregnancy. Before she can blink, she's marched off to Amanda's office and seated on one of the plush couches while Amanda pours hot tea and offers a small cup to Nikita.

"Do you want to hear your options?" Amanda sips her tea almost delicately. Nikita doesn't even know how that is possible.

"I didn't know I had any."

Casually, Amanda circles the lip of her teacup with her forefinger. "There are always choices, Nikita."

_No,_  she thinks,  _there aren't._

"For example," Amanda sets her teacup on the coffee table and leans back against the couch, crossing her legs, "we could terminate the pregnancy." Her eyes fall to Nikita's abdomen, where the palm of her left hand presses protectively against her shirt. Self-consciously, she moves her hand away.

_Damn._

So much for keeping her cards close to the vest.

"Or…you carry the pregnancy to term and the child is put up for adoption."

"That's what I want." The words fly from her lips faster than she intended. She shrinks back and presses her lips together tightly.

"Really? You want your child to be raised by strangers? Was your experience in our foster system really that wonderful, Nikita?"

It wasn't. It was hell. Being abandoned, rejected, bounced around from family to family. Nikita will die before she allows her child to go through the same pain. Her baby is  _not_ going into the foster system.

But Amanda doesn't know that.

"I…I don't want to terminate the pregnancy."  _I will not kill our child,_  is what she doesn't say. She doesn't think of herself as one naturally inclined to maternal instinct, so the strength of her feelings surprises ever her.

"Nikita…" Amanda's tone is just a tad patronizing, "I must say: I'm surprised. I was under the impression that you hated being Josephine, but you still want to carry her baby to term?"

And then Nikita understands. They don't know that the baby is Michael's; they think that the pregnancy is the result of her latest assignment. Of course, Amanda would expect her to  _want_  the abortion. The baby is Josephine's – not Nikita's.

"An abortion is nothing to be ashamed of, Nikita."

Nikita bristles. "I'm not ashamed. It's my body. It's my choice. I want to have this baby."

"If this is some futile act of rebellion…some attempt to regain a sense of self–"

"You know what?" Nikita stands up; her cup of tea falls to the floor, and the dark liquid spills out against the tile. "I'm done."

She leaves; Amanda offers no resistance.

* * *

"Nikita's pregnant," Percy tells Michael.

He tries to guard his expression, he really does, but the question throws him off guard.

"You knew," Percy leans back in his chair. "She told you?"

"She  _does_  confide in me," he answers defensively.

"She  _trusts_  you," Percy amends. Then, before Michael can protest, he quickly says, "That's good. It means she'll listen to you, take your advice. You need to convince her to have an abortion." He holds up a hand to ward off any protest. "For her  _own_  sake, Michael. I've seen what happens when mothers are allowed to become attached. It's not good. Amanda thinks she's insisting on carrying the fetus to term because of some twisted need for rebellion."

"Nikita only takes my advice because it's  _mine_  and not yours. If she thinks for a second that I'm working as your mouthpiece…all that trust is gone like  _that_." He snaps his fingers.

Percy frowns. "Then you'd better make it convincing."

* * *

One night, she wakes up to find her legs and sheets slick with blood. She screams until her throat is raw.

The doctors at Division tell her she's had a miscarriage. The haunted look behind Michael's eyes tells her otherwise. Nikita doesn't know what Percy's done, or how Percy's done it, but the very thought that he is the one responsible for this makes her feel ill.

She sits numbly on the gurney, well aware that Percy, Amanda and Michael are talking right now somewhere down the hall. Tears stream down her cheeks, and she's very thankful that at least no one is around to see her cry.

A few seconds later, a knock at the door causes her to frantically wipe her eyes before she looks up.

Michael stands in the doorway, looking as defeated as she feels.

"He did this," she whispers, and he shakes his head, subtly pressing a finger to his lips.  _Not now._   _Not here._

He sits next to her and calmly drapes his suit jacket around her shoulders. The garment dwarfs her, but she pulls it tightly around her body. Division is so cold. "I know that you're hurting, but you need to be smart about this." It's Michael-speak for  _you're right, but this is not the time or the place._

He takes her hand, but quickly drops it when Amanda enters. When Nikita bluntly refuses to even look at the woman, much less  _speak_  to her, Michael cuts in and helps her to her feet. He keeps his arm around her shoulders, and levels a steady glare at Amanda. "I'm taking her home. You can talk to her later. She's been through enough for one night."

Amanda opens her mouth to protest, but Michael pushes past her without another word.

* * *

Michael takes her home to her apartment, and she curls up on her sofa, tucking her feet up beneath her legs.

For the longest time, she doesn't say a thing, and even then, her words are just a quiet, pain-filled request to be left alone.

He needs to leave soon, get far away from her apartment. He knows, just  _knows_ , that Percy is hovering over Birkhoff's station watching that screen, counting the seconds until he leaves in order to make sure nothing untoward is going on between the two of them. It's not like the nerd can suddenly make it look as if Michael's at home while Percy is right there  _watching_.

Except…Michael doesn't  _want_  to leave her, not like this, not with this haunted look in her eyes and this wounded expression on her face.

At some point, he just can't stay any longer. He lifts her up in his arms and carries her into her bedroom, depositing her gently on the bed and tucking the covers around her lissome body. She murmurs something unintelligible, and his heart breaks for her.

He's not sure how he's reacting to this, except that something somewhere inside his soul is twisting in agony. Outside he must be calm and collected otherwise Percy will  _know_ , and things will only get worse. For Nikita's sake, he can't even visibly  _grieve_  over the fact that his job has once again cost him the life of his child.

They can't stay in Division; they can't leave Division. He loves her, but he hurts her. She loves him, and so far it's done nothing but cost her everything.

He stays by her side until he's sure she's fallen asleep, and he damns the consequences because this is Nikita and she's the most important person in his world.

Maybe he's learned impulsive action and unwavering devotion from her.

* * *

She shuts herself in her room for the next week. Michael comes by for a few hours each day, bringing food, mostly soup, but once or twice, he brings her coffee and a pastry from her favorite bistro. Obligingly, she nibbles at the crescent and sips at the broth, but once he is gone, she hardly touches the food.

Hatred towards Division seeps deep into her veins.

Nikita is not one to stay in the sorrow stage of grief very long. The anger phase is welcome.

She wants out; she wants revenge.

She wants Percy's head on a platter and her bullets piercing his black heart.

She wants Division to burn so it can't take from anyone else the things it's taken from her.

* * *

Michael barges into her apartment a week later, and she looks up from the dismantled 9mm spread out on her coffee table. "What do you want?" she asks, continuing to clean the weapon methodically.

"Why aren't you answering your phone?" He's using his handler voice, that tone that defies argument.

"Took it off the hook. I don't want to talk, Michael."

"Good, because I didn't come here to talk to you. I have an assignment for you."

"No."

"Nikita." It's a warning, but she doesn't heed it.

"I said  _no_ , Michael."

"Nikita…you don't tell these people no. Do you know what Percy would  _do_  to you? Do you really need a reminder of what he is capable of?"

She jumps to her feet. "What else can he take, Michael?"

"What's the point? What are you trying to prove?"

"That everyone doesn't have to ask how high whenever Percy tells them to jump. Someone has to stop him." She lets the words fly unrestrained and she doesn't care how foolish it his, doesn't care if her apartment is bugged or if Percy is around somewhere listening to her every word.

He releases a deep, heavy sigh. "And you think that person should be you?"

"Do you have someone else in mind?" Sitting again, she begins assembling the gun, fingers moving steadily as the pieces click into place, each one fitting exactly the way it is supposed to fit.

"Anyone else." He drops onto her ottoman. "Just not you."

That burns. It's silly, but she'd thought he was coming to respect her as an equal. "Why? Why  _not me_? You don't think I could do it?"

"I'm not losing you too!"

The confession shocks her into stunned silence. Taking a hesitant step towards repairing something that seems irreparably shattered, she slides forward and off the couch. On her knees, she crawls across the short space between them. Her hand slides down the length of his arm and their fingers intertwine.

Still, she's stubborn and not quite willing to let the issue slide that easily.

"Please, Michael…stop deluding yourself and look around. They take  _everything_  away from us, and you just sit back and let them. Why can't we just leave, Michael? Why can't we just take off and never look back?" She knows she's pleading, but she can't help it. Her insides feel shredded and raw; her emotions are bleeding her dry.

His hand cradles her cheek; his thumb brushes across her lips. "And then what, Nikita? We live happily ever after? Domestic bliss? You and I both know that was never meant to be our life."

"But it could be!" She  _knows_  it could be; she's  _seen_  the Michael and Nikita that could be, and they're beautiful. Not like this Michael and Nikita, all twisted up in lies and deceptions. They're lost somewhere in the maze of Division, and sometimes Nikita thinks they'll never be able to find their way out, no matter how hard they try.

"Try not to spend too much time thinking about the future, Nikita."

"You don't want to leave because you still want to find Kasim." She may as well have slapped him. Regret fills her as soon as the words pass her lips. It isn't fair, and she knows it.

"That's not true." He shakes his head slowly, sadly. "I don't want to leave because if we do – if we leave now – we'll spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders."

"There are worse ways to live."

"Name one," he challenges.

"Apart." A shrug. "Alone."

"That's two." He smiles, a sad curve of his lips. Brushing back her hair, he touches her like she's something precious – fragile, breakable. Maybe that's what she is now. Maybe Percy's finally gotten through and she  _is_  broken and damaged.

"I know." She feels the fight draining out of her as she speaks.

And he sighs deeply. His shoulders slump, sorrow fills his eyes, and her heart goes out to him.

She goes easily into his arms. His touch is tender and his kiss is affectionate and reassuring, and she feels herself melt in his embrace.

For now, they are not apart, and they are not alone.

* * *

Michael takes her to Division, where he quickly rushes off the moment he sees Amanda marching down the hall towards them. Amanda leads Nikita to her office and briefs her on her next mission. As far as assignments go, this one is rather straightforward. There is a man, he is a problem, and Division wants him eliminated. (Or someone with a large pocketbook wants him out of the way; there isn't much of a difference these days.)

The mark is in Paris, and their window of opportunity is rapidly closing. Michael is going with her to make sure she behaves, because this is her first assignment since her world went topsy-turvy. As far as Nikita is concerned, her world still hasn't fully righted itself, only now she has vengeance and fury keeping her sharp and focused.

She's determined to prove that she can be as patient as she is impulsive. Part of that patience includes fighting the urge to drown the woman in the horrible tea that she serves.

"It's been a while since we've talked, Nikita," Amanda says, once all the details of the assignment have been discussed backwards and forwards. "How have you been?"

"I'm surprisingly well. Apparently, I am a fully competent adult who is capable of dealing with her own emotional problems without your psychoanalytic babble."

Amanda's eyes narrow. "Nikita, you know I'm only looking out for you and your best interests."

She wants to say that her best interest involved her having her child and escaping Division, but that never happened because Percy and Amanda took matters into their own hands. (And there really is no use in denying it. Michael's all but confirmed it, and it is exactly the type of thing Percy would do.)

Nikita doesn't say a word.

"I know that living this life is difficult sometimes, but what we do really is for the greater good." Amanda's  _trying_  to be decorous. It's just not working. The only greater good Nikita's been working for has been Percy's, and she's sick of playing his games.

She needs Amanda to let her leave, though, so she pastes a smile on her face and lies through her teeth.

"Of course I do. And it is difficult sometimes. It really is. But you've helped me see things in a whole new light, so thank you. Thank you so much." She pretends to wipe away a tear. "Can I leave now?"

With a pert frown, Amanda makes a shooing motion with her hand, and Nikita exits the room as fast as is humanly possible.

* * *

They sit together in first class late at night. He sips on a glass of red wine and she nurses her ginger ale. (His blunt, "No alcohol on assignment, Nikita," was met with a derisive pout.)

For the past hour, he's been reading folders and files on this person she's going to kill tomorrow, trying to figure out who is behind the hit. She glances over his shoulder once, gets bored after a few seconds, and then turns to stare out the window at the black ocean swirling thousands of feet below their jet. If only she knew how much concentration he's putting into his study so he has something to keep his mind on other than the strong temptation to lean over and kiss her.

Finally, he can't stand the silence between them any longer. These past few weeks have been tense and unbearable, and he doesn't think he can stand another minute of sitting so close to her while their relationship is still so strained. He puts work away and carefully finds her hand with his.

"I'm sorry," he tells her.

Turning away from the window, she asks, "For what?"

Hesitating for just a second, – Michael's never been one for either apologies or heart-to-hearts – he searches for the right words to say. "I can make plans for the worst plans scenario, no problem. But when it comes to planning for positive outcomes…I'm just not used to that. It does not mean I don't want one."

With an almost awe-filled smile, she leans over to kiss him then, sweet and tender and everything  _Nikita._  He wraps an arm around her shoulders and holds her close.

"Is that what we need, Michael?" she whispers after a moment. "A plan? A plan to get out?"

He nods his head. Some part of him can't believe he's agreeing to this insanity, this betrayal, but he is.

Division is suffocating them slowly, and every minute they're inside just prolongs the agony.

Michael doesn't want to drown.

* * *

The portion of Nikita's soul that is completely detached from the horror of her assignment wants to brag that the shot is perfect, but there is no time to admire it. She can't process the fact that she's just taken a life on nothing but Percy's say so.

The mark was in the building next to the one she's using as a perch, so she has a little bit of time before the authorities figure out where the shot came from. At least, she hopes she does.

With quick, deft hands, Nikita packs up her Remington 700PSS and gets moving. It's a shame. There is no way is she getting the rifle out of the country, and it's a beauty. Sadly, she has no time to mourn the loss because she needs to get out of the building before the authorities arrive.

The elevator will take too long, so Nikita just heads directly for the stairs, thinking that she was definitely smart for wearing heels into the building, but swapping them for flats after gaining access to the appropriate floor. She's sad about the heels too. It seems she's leaving a lot behind in Paris on this excursion.

The night air is cool and refreshing after descending forty-plus flights of stairs.

A silver four-door pulls up to the curb, and after she tucks the rifle into the trunk, Nikita practically leaps into the passenger's seat. Flushed and a little out of breath, she snaps on her seatbelt and turns to Michael as his foot presses on the gas petal and they speed away. She almost cheers. "Well, that was fun!" She bites her lip as she grins and does the tiniest little happy-dance in her seat.

"I think I beat another one of your records," she taunts.

He gives her a look, but she sees pride in his eyes.

She knows that he's proud of the shot she just made, not of the assassination she's just carried out.

Either way, that revelation makes her outstandingly happy.

* * *

She knocks on his hotel room door later that night with a bottle of expensive champagne she doubts he'll let her drink and a brand new set of lacy lingerie hidden underneath her black sweatpants and oversized tee-shirt. That way, if he rejects her, she won't feel like a _total_  idiot.

He lets her in, and they spend the entire night – jet lag being what it is – awake talking about missions and the possibility of escape.

He does, unbelievably, let her have a few glasses of bubbly. When she raises an eyebrow at him, all he says is, "What Percy doesn't know isn't gonna hurt him."

She thinks that's a good rule to live by.

* * *

They begin to plan.

A bit here, a bit there.

Michael's resources are better than hers are, so when he can, he teaches her things they'll need to know on the outside. She knows how to lose a tail, how to stay under the radar for a short period of time, but he coaches her about staying alive in for a long period of time – the rest of their lives.

They tuck away money in safety deposit boxes; they squirrel away guns in various weapons caches. This is mostly Michael's doing, seeing as Nikita's movements are a little more limited. Still, he makes her memorize every location, every combination, and every contingency.

At night, they sit in Nikita's living room and pour over Kasim's files, trying to find any clue, any hint of where he might be or what he might be doing.

Because once they get him, they can get out.

It takes a few weeks for her to realize that she isn't living with the constant fear of Percy's wrath. She no longer wonders if they're always doomed to live in the shadows because there is the possibility of a future now.

There's  _hope_ , and Nikita clings to that with all that she has, regardless of however foolish it might be.

* * *

She meets him in a coffee shop.

"Hi, I'm Daniel."

Nikita smiles as she takes her drink from the barista.

"Hi, I'm late."

She doesn't give him a second thought.

* * *

A few days later, she wakes up in the middle of the night without knowing why.

"They're sending me on a mission."

"Michael?" Her fingers find the switch to her bedside lamp, and the soft glow it provides is just enough to make out his silhouette in the doorway. "What are you doing here?"

"I leave in under four hours."

Nikita chances a glance at her alarm clock. 3:08 AM. "When will you be back?"

He moves to the bed and sits on the mattress. She finally gets a good look at him. With his wrinkled suit jacket, loosened tie, unbuttoned collar, and shuffled hair, he's quite a mess. "I…don't know."

She scoots towards him on the bed and snakes her arms around him, laying her head on his shoulder. "Where are you going?"

He shakes his head sadly, and she understands. Either he doesn't know or he doesn't want to tell her. Neither option is good.

His hand rests heavily against her waist, and he gently tugs her closer to him.

"Nikita," the word is a breathy whisper against her neck.

"I know," she says and draws his mouth to hers. For a moment, the kiss is slow, but it builds steadily in its intensity. Suddenly she's straddling his lap, helping him shed his jacket and finish unbuttoning his shirt. Her fingers swiftly unknot his tie and throw it aside.

They twist around and then he's laying her down on the mattress and his body is over hers, heavy and wonderful. Her head spins, and her heart races.

He reaches across her to turn off the light and the room goes black.

* * *

Michael leaves in the morning because as much as he would like to, he can't stay without putting them both in danger. He tries to convince himself that she'll be alright while he's away. He'll be gone, so it's not like there's a chance of Percy catching them together. Nikita will be safe so long as she keeps her head down and follows orders. (Although neither quality is one of her strong suits.)

She stirs when he tries to carefully slip out of her embrace. Her grip is strong, and she moans when he moves her arms.

Her hair spreads out across her pillow as she rolls onto her back, still slumbering. One arm stretches over her head, the other rests against her stomach.

He doesn't wake her up to say goodbye, because somehow he knows that if he did, he wouldn't be able to leave her.

(He doesn't  _want_  to leave her, – ever – and that is precisely the problem.)

He kisses her forehead tenderly and whispers  _I love you_  into the still morning air.

Just in case.

* * *

In Nikita's opinion, the man Percy sends to kill her is beyond incompetent.

For starters, the imbecile lacks the brains to use a gun instead of making her death look like a robbery gone violent. Percy's malicious; Nikita has no doubt in her mind that the Reaper's orders were to make it as painful and drawn-out as possible.

Although the Reaper is so well built it looks like he could snap her tiny body in half like a twig, he's slower than she is, and Nikita's nimble feet dodge his first blow with ridiculous ease.  _Her_  gun is drawn in an instant, and she doesn't pause or hesitate.

Once he's dead on the floor, Nikita doesn't waste time. She grabs the black backpack containing everything she needs on the run, along with the disposable emergency cell phone Michael gave her, hoping against hope that Percy decided that she was the weak link and therefore disposing of Michael was unnecessary.

She tells herself that she never actually  _expected_  Michael to answer, but the message she leaves on his phone still sounds a touch frantic to her ears. "Percy sent a Reaper. Call me."

The protocol they've established in this situation is clear; Michael has drilled what she should do into her head so well she can practically quote his instructions word for word. She is to keep the phone on for twenty-four hours. If she hasn't heard back from him by then, her directions are to assume the worst, ditch the device and disappear.

* * *

" _Percy sent a Reaper. Call me."_

Percy smiles; there is  _nothing_ in the technological world that Birkhoff can't hack.

"Delete it."


	6. and it's coming over you like it's all a big mistake

_VI. and it's coming over you like it's all a big mistake_

* * *

They tell him she's dead.

And like a total  _idiot_ , he believes them.

He gets back from a mission with one of his newest recruits to find Percy waiting for him in his office. That in and of itself is unusual, so Michael is immediately on guard.

"Nikita's dead," Percy says simply, and Michael doesn't believe him.

But the man places pictures on his desk, smiling smugly all the while, watching Michael's facial expression as he absorbs the cold reality presented before him.

Her body is twisted and broken. Blood is spilled across the wood flooring of her apartment; bruises mar her skin. Seeing her damaged and violated like that makes his stomach churn and a sudden raging desire to kill Percy for ever ordering that man to so much as  _lay a hand on her_  blaze in his chest.

"She didn't make it easy," Percy grumbles. "It's a shame, really."

Of  _course_  she didn't make it easy. Nikita is – well, she  _was_  – a fighter. It's one of those things he loves about her.

_Loved_.

* * *

He never calls.

She keeps the mobile phone on for two weeks, unable to let hope slip through her fingers.

Finally, she drops the cell onto the concrete and slams the heel of her boot into it again and again.

And then, torturously unaware of Michael's fate, Nikita slips off Division's radar, drops off the grid and vanishes into thin air.

She stumbles and falls for quite a while before she lands on her feet. Eventually, she toughens up because  _she is Nikita_  and  _like hell_  is she letting Percy get the best of her. She _will_ survive, she  _will_ get the resources to take Percy down, and she  _will_  see Michael again. It is not a matter of  _if_ ; it is a matter of  _when._

Taking a page out of Michael's handbook, Nikita finds a nice little hole to hide in and starts to plan. She starts with what she knows: what Amanda has taught her, what Percy has taught her, what Michael has taught her.

Percy has taught her that everyone has a weakness; the trick is to simply exploit it.

So, she needs to find Percy's weakness.

Michael has taught her how to survive without Division's resources. Through him, she's learned where to go to get information, and how to not be screwed over while trying to obtain it. She ends up mentally sifting through his contacts one by one, until she finally finds one who  _might_  have an in on Percy.

Amanda has taught her that nothing can be gained by rash action, tea is horrendous, and deviousness is one of the best ways to play the game. It takes quite a bit of cash and quite a bit of flirting, but eventually she finds the skeleton in Percy's closet for which she's been searching. The first whispers of Percy's Black Boxes seem too good to be true. When the rumors are all but confirmed, she almost feels giddy.

She's going to destroy Percy using his own insurance policy. It's something that Percy _himself_  would do. Nikita finds that both poetic and ironic.

Six boxes and six guardians against one Nikita.

Damn the odds.

Patience has never been Nikita's strong suit, but she's been trapped in the web of Division so long she's figured out how the game is played by learning one rule at a time.

Except now, she's out, and it's time to make her own rules.

Rule number one: the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

* * *

Michael doesn't stay with Division out of some misguided sense of loyalty. He stays because he doesn't know where else to go. Life is empty without Nikita; hell, the  _world_  is empty without Nikita.

More than once, he contemplates calling her phone, but logic tells him that even if he did, she wouldn't answer. He couldn't handle it if she didn't answer.  _If_  she's alive – and based on what he's seen that's a  _big_  if – she's dumped the thing by now.

It's beyond stupid, but Michael doesn't even seriously question the photos until  _months_ later. He's at one of Percy's boring galas, allegedly to provide security, when just happens to catch sight of a familiar face out of the corner of his eye. Dark, playful eyes meet his before she vanishes back into the crowd. It's almost as if she means for him to pursue her, which – if it actually  _is_  Nikita – she probably does.

He dashes forward, eyes methodically scanning the room.

A fellow agent's voice says something in his earpiece, but Michael doesn't pay attention.

He sees another glimpse of her: long hair swinging above her shoulders as she slips effortlessly through the throngs of people, disappearing for a few seconds only to reappear again.

Michael fears he's losing his mind even entertaining the  _thought_  that this woman is Nikita, but he has to know for sure, so he follows the hint of her deep red dress and the bounce of her dark hair as they lead him in a zigzag pattern across the ballroom and sweep through the door leading into the stairwell. Hesitating for just a moment – Percy surely would  _not_  be pleased with him if he knew Michael was following a figment of his imagination when he should be  _doing his job_  – Michael pushes through the double doors.

She's there waiting. For a long time they just stare at each other. They're practically strangers, old familiarity tragically lost when their paths forcibly diverged.

"You were dead," he breathes finally, even as the cold, hard truth settles in: Percy lied to him. And no, he wasn't so naive and trusting to believe the man completely, but after so much time passed without her contacting him, it seemed to be the truth.

Slowly Nikita shakes her head, shrugging her shoulders. "Is that what  _Percy_  told you?"

Michael's hatred towards the man increases tenfold; it's enough to drown out whatever small speck of loyalty previously existed – and some did exist, even after he believed the man had killed Nikita.

He doesn't need to answer the question, and he doesn't have the opportunity even if he wants to because Nikita steps towards him, he steps towards her, and then just like that they're in each other's arms.

The rest of the world fades away; it's as if they were never apart.

Without another word, they leave and never come back.

* * *

She takes him back to her hotel room.

They don't turn the lights on; instead, they choose to stay in the shadows, shrouded in blackness.

Her fingers trail down the length of his arm until they reach his wrist. Tentatively she takes his hand in hers, bringing his fingers to her mouth, kissing each knuckle reverently.

He breathes her name and she shivers.

She thinks that after those long months apart this time together should be filled with passion, desire and a sense of urgency, but it's not. It's unhurried and deliberate. It's  _them_ finding each other again, reveling in the ecstasy of simply being together after an agonizing separation.

After one long, slow kiss that holds the promise of so much more, she steps away from him. Keeping their hands linked together, she leads him through the suite to the bedroom.

Once they're there, he spins her around so her back is to him. She feels his fingers working on the zipper of her dress. The garment pools at her feet. He kisses her shoulder blades, steadily moving down her spine, his hands firmly pressed against her bare stomach.

"I missed you," he says, lips tickling the nape of her neck. She squirms.

"I missed you more." She leans back against his chest, and he presses his lips were her neck meets her shoulder.

He smiles. "Not possible."

* * *

He wakes in the morning to find Nikita sitting beside him on the bed, legs tucked off to one side, palm resting against his chest, hair draped around her shoulders. Caught in the beams of golden sunlight filtering through the large windows, she looks beatific and peaceful.

_Damn it._

He's in love with her.

"Let's go somewhere," he says.

"Where?" she asks, bending down to brush her lips lightly against his mouth. It's tantalizing.

He grabs her before she has a chance to pull away, dragging her body down atop his as he kisses her again, pent up longing quickly morphing into an intense, fiery passion.

"Anywhere," he answers, easily rolling their tangled bodies over so his is over hers and pressing long, unhurried kisses along the underside of her jaw. "Anywhere you want to go."

He catches the light flutter of her eyelashes and the tiny hitch in her breathing as she whispers his name.

"I need to tell you something," she whispers.

He moves to her collarbone, and she squirms pleasantly, smile on her lips.

"Michael," she practically giggles, "I'm serious. This is important."

He sits up then, and she follows his example.

Nikita's fingers wind together in her lap. "I found him – Kasim."

"Did you kill him?" Michael interrupts, because he has to  _know_ , and as much as he would have liked to shoot the man himself, he thinks he'll just be glad to have that weight off his chest. Besides, he trusts Nikita. If she tells him Kasim is dead, he'll believe it.

She looks down. "Yes. I did."

He draws her close and places a gentle kiss on her lips. There are no words for this moment.

"There's more." She shifts uncomfortably on the mattress. "Michael…he's Division – or, he _was_  before he defected. Percy's the one who ordered that your family be killed."

Their gazes lock together, and silent understanding passes between them.

As tempting as it is to slip off into the sunset and ride away, they both know that they can't.

They're not done yet.

* * *

Black Box Number One is tucked away in South Dakota, guarded by a guardian named Abby. She's tinier than Nikita, which Michael almost didn't think possible.

They take turns shadowing her for a few days, watching as she goes about her daily routine. Since there isn't a bank nearby that Percy would consider suitable to store one of his precious boxes, Nikita keeps tabs on the guardian while Michael breaks into her house to poke around. Hidden in a cache of fake passports and various forms of currency, he finds a yellow GPS tracker.

Nikita takes down the guardian, ties her up neatly, and pops her in the back of their SUV.

The tracker leads them to the badlands, where they learn that in addition to having a fondness for submachine guns, Abby apparently has a bit of a predilection towards explosives. In order to get to the box, they need a metal detector and a set of shovels.

It takes them over three hours to  _get to_ where the bones are buried, much less dig out the lock box, and once they do, they find that it's booby-trapped.

Predictably, that's when Abby decides to slip free of her bonds and swing a shovel at Michael's head.

The entire thing ends with a skirmish, five explosions, and a nasty shoot-out, not to mention a dead guardian.

Still, they smile at each other as their  _Kia Sorento_  drives out of the state. Nikita shakes sand out of her hair as she turns the evidence of their first victory over in her hands. She's hot and sweaty and bruised, but nothing can suppress her happiness.

One down. Five to go.

* * *

They have their disagreements.

Sometimes he forgets that although he once was the teacher and she once was the student, those are not their roles  _now_.

She has become his equal in almost every respect. Her skills have been honed and developed during her months on the run, and she is  _not_  used to taking orders. (Not that she was used to taking orders  _before_. Nikita's always been an independent thinker.)

Still, they work everything out eventually, whether it is through kissing or kicking.

When she suggests something so utterly ridiculous it's either going to work perfectly or get them killed, there is this waythat he smiles at her that makes her want to kiss the grin right off of his lips and remind him that sometimes taking chances is a good thing.

It's how they ended up here, after all.

* * *

Number Two is in Miami.

This one is in a bank, and getting at it takes a little bit of creativity – but, thankfully, there are no explosions this go around.

The good news, this guardian is also female, thin, tan-skinned with dark hair. She and Nikita could have been twins in another life. Michael lifts the woman's ID. While Nikita is fabricating a new passport and driver's license for herself, he busies himself persuading an acquaintance to hack into the woman's account and get her information. After that, getting the box is as easy as walking into the bank and asking for it.

They don't even bother to take care of the guardian, save for finagling a sample of her blood.

That night, they celebrate with Mojitos at a nice little beachside bar, and she kisses him under the moon.

She wonders briefly if this is how they do romantic vacations. ("Oh, you and Robert went skiing in Colorado? Michael and I took a cross-country road trip in search of ominous pieces of computer hardware so that we could take down our former boss's evil Black Ops program.")

Two down.

* * *

It is at this point that Percy begins to catch up to them. A quick scuffle with a Reaper threatens to split them apart, but Nikita is nothing if not inventive, and even Michael has to admit that taking down a guy by stabbing him in the neck with a car key is pretty darn impressive.

Still, at the end of the day he's helping her ice a sprained ankle and suturing a cut above her eyebrow.

That's his Nikita. You can knock her down, but you can't knock her out. She fusses when he makes her rest for a day, ranting and raving about how she can't take down Percy while she's lying on a cot.

"Division will still be there when you heal up."

"But what if –" she tries to get up, and he stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder – "what if Percy begins to make new black boxes?"

"Settle down, Nikita," he shakes his head at her enthusiasm. "Do you know how long it took for him to set those things up? It'll take a while before he has replacements in play."

Still, she crosses her arms over her chest and juts her lower lip out in a pretend pout. "But that's  _boring_ , Michael!"

"Well." He tries not to smirk, he really does, but he fails utterly, "I'm sure we can think of _something_  to keep you entertained."

As it turns out, Nikita can think of quite a few  _somethings_ , each one much better than its predecessor.

* * *

Box Three is located in New York City.

("Yet  _another_  safety deposit box!" Nikita wails. "How unoriginal!"

Michael just chuckles.)

This time the guardian is male, so Nikita is the honey-trap.

When that doesn't work, they use Michael's contacts to break into the bank the old-fashioned way: a hold up. Nikita poses as a rich heiress opening a new account when Michael bursts in with a shotgun and a list of demands. He keeps the cops preoccupied while Nikita breaks into the safety deposit box, gets  _Percy's_  box and takes down the guardian, who shows up seconds after the police do.

And because they're Michael and Nikita, they get out with the box and without getting killed by the guardian.

As they drive away from the city, she holds the three boxes in her lap, running her fingers over the surfaces reverently.

Halfway there.

* * *

"Seriously," Michael says one night, as the tips of his fingers rub a fond caress against her shoulder blades. "I can't believe that Percy didn't find you when he knew you were alive and out there. He had to have been sending men out after you."

"I ran into a few of them, but they were easy to evade. It's a good thing you never chased me," Nikita jokes.

"I wouldn't have caught you." He sounds so sure that she lifts her head up from his chest to look him in the eye.

"You think?"

"Yeah." One of his hands plays lovingly with her hair. "Because I never would have really tried."

* * *

Box Four is in Pennsylvania. It's guarded by a woman named Dana Winters, who is in love with a sheriff.

Nikita looks at Michael, and Michael looks at Nikita. All she has to say is "they're us" before he relents and agrees to help them.

Of course, Dana turns them in to Division in exchange for her freedom, and soon they're surrounded by a slew of reapers.

The bloodbath is unimaginable, and the price is higher than Nikita really wants to pay, but in the end, they get what they came for.

"What do we do when it ends?" Nikita asks one night. "When all this is over?"

He kisses her knuckles one by one. "Whatever we want."

She thinks that's a good answer.

* * *

Box Five takes them to London.

The guardian there is brutal. Getting him out of the way so that they can to the box involves a car chase that seems to cross half the city, followed by a foot chase that seems to last about as long.

They chase him into a cathedral, where he disappears from view and they consequently split up. She goes right and he goes left. As it turns out, the guardian went left. Nikita doesn't know this until she hears two shots ring out. She races towards the sound, heart pounding and feat beating against the floor.

_Please, don't be Michael._

No one is shot when she reaches the two men. Instead, both guns are on the floor and their owners are engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Nikita can easily tell that the guardian is winning.

Michael glances at her for just a second, but the distraction is enough for the guardian to throw him to the floor.

Nikita doesn't even pause for breath before she pulls the trigger and the guardian falls.

The first words out of Michael's mouth are, "I love you."

The first words out of Nikita's mouth are, "You're okay."

Holding out a hand, she helps him to his feet. His arms wrap around her and they hold on to each other desperately.

They find the box hidden in the very church in which they stand.

There is only one left now.

* * *

Another Reaper, another narrow escape later, and they're collapsing in on a springy motel mattress, riding through a powerful adrenaline rush.

Michael chuckles as his fingers clumsily fidget with the zipper on the left side of her blouse. Impatiently, she pushes his hand away and takes care of it herself.

"One left," she whispers between frantic kisses. "One left and all this is over." Maybe it's a promise. Only one more, and all this ends. Percy can't hurt them anymore.

The bed creeks and the pillows are hard, but she doesn't really care because there is a gash across his forehead and bruises on his face and chest reminding her how close she came to losing him.

They're alive, and that's all that matters right now.

* * *

Six is in Montreal, Canada, watched over by a guardian named Owen Elliot, who is in love with a woman named Emily.

("I'm starting to feel like cupid," Michael mutters. Nikita just finds it poetic that Percy is constantly being taken down by the one thing he forbids above all else – attachment.)

Box Six proves to be the easiest and hardest one of all. It's easy because all they have to do is agree to help Owen slip past Division's radar with his One True Love, and the box is theirs. It's hard, because by this time, Percy is growing desperate, so not only do they have to keep themselves alive, they also have to help protect Emily and Owen as Percy sends Reaper after Reaper after them.

"What's your name?" Owen asks her before they part ways.

She grins. "Nikita."

* * *

What to  _do_  with the Black Boxes is a source of a lot of debate. On the one hand, both of them would like to just kill Percy and be done with it. Problem is, killing Percy doesn't actually solve the problem.

Michael's idea is a little more…crafty. Kidnap Birkhoff,  _persuade_  him to decode the boxes, discover Percy's secrets and use them against him.

("It all comes back to chess," Nikita groans. Michael gives her a confused look, and she distracts him with a kiss.)

As it turns out, it doesn't completely matter because the answer comes to them from the most unlikely source.

His name is Ryan, he's a CIA agent, and he has enough of a crush on Nikita to drive Michael  _bonkers_.

They do, strangely enough, end up kidnapping Birkhoff because no one at the CIA is capable of cracking the encryption on Percy's boxes. It isn't much of a kidnapping really. The moment Birkhoff sees them sitting in his living room – Nikita snacking from a bowl of Skittles on his end table and Michael sipping distastefully at a can of Red Bull – Seymour sighs and says, "What do you want me to do?"

He really is as good with computers as he claims, which makes his boasting upon cracking the encryption only  _slightly_  less annoying than it would have been otherwise.

The data only confirms what Nikita has begun to suspect: Percy's been digging his own grave for months now.

Unfortunately, so have Michael and Nikita. The boxes contain details on their missions, foreign and abroad. Needless to say, the CIA is anything but happy with them.

However, when taking down an evil organization with ties to the government is a piece of cake, it's really no surprise that even the  _Central Intelligence Agency_  can't hold on to them for long.

They spend maybe an hour being interrogated in separate holding rooms before boredom gets the best of them and they escape, grabbing Birkhoff along the way.

No way is anyone taking Percy down without their help.

They are Michael and Nikita, and together they can do anything.

* * *

Percy disappears sometime during the middle of the CIA raid, and it falls to Nikita, Michael, and Birkhoff to find him. The three of them stand in the shell of a building that was once Division. The armory is empty, stripped bare of submachine guns, rifles, sniper rifles, pistols and shotguns of all shapes and sizes. The computer lab is bare, every last scrap of hardware carted off by men in suits. Operations is filled with shattered screens, tossed keyboards and overturned desks.

It fills Nikita with both relief and dread. Relief that it's gone – finished, done. There is no more Division to haunt her every waking moment and even a few of her dreams. Dread, because Percy is still out there. Right now, finding him looks harder than that whole expression about the needle and the haystack.

Michael stands to her left; Seymour to her right. The former is in deep concentration and the latter looks as if he's mourning the death of his servers, which he probably is. Shadownet was his  _baby_.

Nikita knows what it's like to love something deeply and have it ripped away from you. Doesn't matter what it was.

"I can find him," Birkhoff says after a second. Both Michael and Nikita's heads swivel to look at him. The nerd shrugs. "I can find him." He wiggles his fingers. "God of the Machines, remember. Not much went on here that I didn't know about. I know how to find him."

Nikita grins. "Let's do it."

* * *

They end up breaking into the CIA  _again_  so Birkhoff can use their computer system.

("Just for fun," Nikita tells Ryan when he catches them. For his part, the analyst sighs, groans and leaves them be.)

They escape with, hopefully, enough information to find Percy.

They aren't worried about what evidence they need to bring him down. All three of them seem to understand that this is something that will never go to trial. They're carrying out their own brand of justice.

* * *

The son of a bitch is living in a penthouse, drinking high-priced wine and soliciting high-class call girls. The moment the elevator doors open and he sees them, Michael senses the resignation in his face.

Percy knew this was coming.

But then, Michael thinks, he  _had_ to know. From the very moment he and Nikita set their sights on taking down Division, Percy must have known that this was imminent.

The girls flee as Percy plops down on a plush sofa and continues to drink from a half-empty bottle of vodka.

"About time you showed up." His words are slurred. "Been waiting. Figured my past was going to catch up to me sooner or later." He glances up at them. "So which one of you wants to end it?"

Nikita takes a step forward, and Michael lets her.

The Glock in her hands wavers, and Percy smiles. "You're not sure you want this, are you, Nikita? It's okay. You don't have to. This isn't you. You have a choice, and you can choose to turn around and walk right out the door."

Michael watches as her fingers tighten around the handle and her lips press firmly together in a thin line.

"No," she says firmly, "You don't get to do that. You don't get to  _talk me out of it_. You don't care about me, and you don't care about any of the other hundreds of people you've recruited over the years. You don't get to weasel your way out of this by appealing to my  _better nature_. You can't say that this isn't me, because guess what?  _You made me._ You don't get to tell me that I have a choice, because you've  _never_  given me a choice. _Ever_."

Her voice is steady, and her hands are as well.

* * *

And the last word Percy breathes before the end?

Nikita's name.

* * *

It ends, and it feels like the world has ground to a halt. Nikita feels deflated, like a balloon without air.

There's this  _emptiness_ where she used to store her vengeance and rage. It feels like there isn't enough air to breathe, as if she's gasping, dying for just one full breath.

So she does what she should have done a long time ago.

She grieves.

She grieves in the only way she knows how. (For what her life could have been, for her unborn child, for everything Percy stole from her and everything she, in her own stupidity, stole from herself.)

And Michael helps her the only way he knows how: he wraps his arms around her and holds her together as best as he can.

"Let's go somewhere," he says.

"Where?" she asks.

"Anywhere," he answers. "We can go anywhere you want to go."

* * *

So they take off, just like that.

Michael's right. They can go anywhere they want; they can do anything they want. One week they travel through Europe, and then they move on to Asia and Australia. They point to a spot on the map and they go there.

Eventually, the heaviness in her chest subsides, and she feels like she can  _breathe_. That maybe, just maybe, everything is going to be okay.

They're Michael and Nikita – pure and simple – the way they were always supposed to be; free from the Percy's lies, Amanda's games, and Division's walls. They don't have to hide anymore; they don't have to sneak around. Their life is not a borrowed one. They live on their own terms now.

They're together; everything else  _doesn't matter_.

They have each other.

It's more than enough.

* * *

_The End._

**Author's Note:**

> Written for HetBigBang on Livejournal. Oddly enough, the original plot-bunny said 'hilarity ensues'. Then I started writing this thing and discovered that Michael and Nikita don't exactly lend themselves to fluff, at least not in my head.


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